THE   PODESTA'S   DAUGHTER 


AND  OTHER 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE 


PODESTA'S   DAUGHTER 


AND    OTHER 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


BY 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER, 

Author  of  "  Calaynos,"  "Anne  Boleyn,"  "The  Betrothal,"  &c. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
A.  HART,  LATE  CAREY  AND  HART, 

126   Chestnut  Street. 
1852. 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851, 

BY  GEORGE  H.  BOKER, 

in  the  Clerk's-  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
T.  K.  AND  P.  G  COLLINS,  PRINTERS. 


CONTENTS. 


M738281 


PAGE 

THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER,       .  .           .           .           .13 

THE  IVORY  CARVER,       .           .  ,           .            .           .53 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH,         .  .                       .            .87 

THE  VISION  OF  THE  GOBLET,     .  •           .           ,           .105 

"I  HAVE  A  COTTAGE," 112 

THE  RIVER  AND  THE  MAIDEN,  .            .           .            .119 

A  BALLAD  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN,  ....     124 


SONGS  AND  SONNETS. 

SONG— LOVELORN  LUCY,  .  .  .  .  .135 

"       "  THERE  WAS  A  GAY  MAIDEN,"  .  .  .     137 

"          «  I  SIT  BENEATH  THE  SUNBEAM'S  GLOW,"  .  .       138 

STREET  LYRICS— THE  GROCER'S  DAUGHTER,       .  .     140 

"  "  A  MYSTERY,        ....    142 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SONNET — THE  AWAKING  OF  THE  POETICAL  FACULTY,         .  145 

"  To  ANDREW  JACKSON,          ....  146 

«  To  ENGLAND,            .            .            .            .            .147 

"  "WHAT!  CRINGE  TO  EUROPE!"    .            .            .  148 

"  "WHAT  THOUGH  THE  CITIES  BLAZE,"         .           .  14(J 

«  "  NOT  WHEN  THE  BUXOM  FORM,"  .           ,  ^       .  150 

"  "  SPRING,  IN  THE  GENTLE  LOOK,"             .            .  151 

"  "EITHER  THE  SUM  OF  THIS  SWEET  MUTINY,"     .  152 

"  "I'LL  CALL  THY  FROWN  A  HEADSMAN,"  .           .  153 

"  "NAY,  NOT  TO  THEE,"       ....  154 

"  "HOW  CANST  THOU  CALL  MY  MODEST  LOVE,"     ,  155 

"  "WHY  SHALL  I  CHIDE,"    ....  156 


THE 

PODESTA'S    DAUGHTER 

A  DRAMATIC  SKETCH. 


SCENE.  Before  and  within  the  gate  of  an  Italian  CJmrch- 
yard.  Enter ;  as  if  from  the  wars,  DUKE  ODO,  VlN- 
CENZO,  and  a  train  of  men-at-arms. 

DUKE  ODO.     (Dismounting.^) 

HARK  you,  Vincenzo;  here  will  I  dismount. 
Lead  on  Falcone  to  the  castle.     See 
He  lack  no  provender  or  barley-straw 
To  ease  his  battered  sides.     Poor  war-worn  horse ! 
When  last  we  galloped  past  this  church-yard  gate 
He  was  a  colt,  gamesome  and  hot  of  blood, 
Bearing  against  the  bit  until  my  arm 
2 


14  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Ached  with  his  humors.     Mark  the  old  jade  now— 
He  knows  we  talk  about  him — a  mere  boy 
Might  ride  him  bare-backed.     Give  my  people  note 
Of  my  approach,  and  tell  them,  for  yourself, 
I  will  not  look  too  strictly  at  my  house  : 
An  absent  lord  trains  careless  servitors. 
I  wish  no  bonfires  lighted  on  the  hills, 
No  peaceful  cannon  roused  to  mimick  wrath; 
Say,  I  have  seen  cities  burn,  and  shouting  ranks 
Of  solid  steel-clad  footmen  melt  away 
Before  a  hundred  pieces.     Say  I  come 
For  rest,  not  jollity;  and  all  I  seek 
Is  a  calm  welcome  in  their  lighted  eyes, 
And  quiet  murmurs  that  appear  to  come 
More  from  the  heart  than  lips.     Remember  this. 
Yon  old  gray  man  who  wanders  through  the  tombs, 
Like  Time  among  his  spoils,  is  the  first  face, 
Of  all  the  many  strange  ones  we  have  passed, 
That  I  can  call  by  name  :  I'll  question  him. 
See  Marco's  bed  be  soft.     Let  him  be  laid 
In  the  south  turret,  close  beside  my  room : 
His  wound  aches  cruelly;     I  must  not  forget 
The  cry  of  love  with  which  he  dashed  between 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  15 

My  broken  corslet  and  the  Frenchman's  spear. 
There,  lead  Falcone  gently.     Loose  his  girth  j 
Unhook  his  curb.     He  ever  fretted  thus 
To  part  from  me. 

VINCENZO. 

Lord!  signor,  here's  a  task! 
First,  lead  this  furious  devil  to  his  crib, 
Throttle  the  cannon,  blow  the  bonfires  out, 
Tell  o'er  another  Iliad  of  your  fights — 
A  hundred  battles  to  Achilles'  one: 
Keep  down  such  yells  of  joy  as  might  outbrave 
The  lungs  of  thunder;  make  a  bed  for  Marco — 
A  soft  bed,  bless  me ! — the  outrageous  bear 
Would  growl,  like  Cerebus,  if  he  were  laid 
Upon  the  cloudy  couch  of  amorous  Venus. 
Then — Well,  you  say  it,  and — 

DUKE  ODO. 

You  will  obey ; 

Bettering  my  plans  with  your  inventive  brain : 
Only  there  must  be  hinderances  enough 
To  heighten  your  good  service.     Fare  you  well ! 


16  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

(VlNCENZO  and  the  train  ride  on  toivards  the  castle, 
DUKE  ODO  enters  the  churchyard,  and  approaches 
the  PODESTA. 
Good  even,  signer ! 

PODESTA. 

Welcome !     An  old  man 
May  fitly  bid  you  welcome  here;  for  I, 
Standing  upon  this  graveyard,  sometimes  feel 
Like  an  unseized  inheritor  who  treads 
Hereditary  acres,  long  kept  back. 
I  am  next  heir  to  this  domain  of  death : 
Ere  many  days,  I'll  come  with  funeral  pomp 
To  claim  my  full  possession.     Welcome,  then; 
No  breach  of  hospitality  shall  prove 
My  right  unworthy.     I  was  thinking  thus — 
Framing  such  salutation  for  a  guest — 
While  you  stood  in  the  gateway. 

DUKE  ODO. 

Merry  sadness! 

PODESTA. 

Ay,  signor,  'tis  as  well  as  weeping  mirth. 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  17 

Laughter  and  tears  I  their  issue  is  the  same; 
One  treads  upon  the  other's  flying  heels, 
Heaven  takes  up  each  into  its  steady  breast, 
Life  rolls  along  beyond  the  power  of  both, 
And  either  is  soon  over. 

DUKE  ODO. 

True  as  sad, 
I  pray,  Podesta — 

PODESTA. 

How!     You  know  my  office? 

DUKE  ODO. 

One  at  the  gate  informed  me. 

PODESTA. 

Who  were  they — 

Those  horsemen  that  went  clattering  up  the  street? 
Yon  wall  concealed  them. 

DUKE  ODO. 

Servants  of  the  castle. 

PODESTA. 

What  a  rude  stir  the  lazy  varlets  made! 
2* 


18  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

'Tis  now  all  play  with  them.     The  duke's  abroad, 
Battering  down  castles,  while  malicious  time 
Is  busy  with  his  own.     He'll  find  neglect 
Makes  as  sad  breaches  as  his  cannon-balls. 
The  whole  world  rots  together,  men  and  things; 
That's  comforting  to  mortals. 

DUKE  ODO. 

How  the  graves 
Have  thickened  here ! 

PODESTA. 

Ay,  truly;  and  should  man 
Consent  to  leave  these  landmarks  of  the  dead 
Stand  a  few  centuries,  he  would  make  his  home 
Within  the  peopled  cities  of  decay; 
And  the  bewildered  swain,  furrowing  the  fields, 
Would  drive  his  plough  zig-zag  between  the  stones 
In  sowing-time. 

DUKE    ODO. 

This  consecrated  ground, 
Within  my  memory,  was  an  open  field. 
Here  I  have  seen  the  golden  heads  of  grain 
Shaken  together  in  an  autumn  gust; 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  19 

Where  yon  ambitious  marble  lifts  its  pile 
Of  sculptured  trophies,  I  have  seen  the  peasant 
With  hearty,  laughing  labor  strike  his  spade 
To  found  the  May-pole :  glancing  eyes  and  feet; 
Timed  to  the  lute  and  rattling  castanet, 
Figures  of  rustic  grace  and  rustic  strength, 
Gaudy  with  flaring  ribbons,  I  have  seen 
Whirled  in  a  transient  frenzy  round  and  round 
That  festal  tree.     Where  is  the  ripened  grain  ? 
Yonder  the  spade  was  struck,  with  heavier  heart, 
For  other  purposes;  and  other  sounds 
Than  May-day  dance  and  music  have  been  heard 
Around  the  crusted  sculptures  of  that  tomb. 
Alas !  the  very  flowers  which  twined  the  pole 
Have  turned  to  marble ;  colorless  and  sad 
They  stiffen  round  yon  column,  and  appear 
Such  flowers  as  winter,  in  a  jealous  mood, 
Might  breed  upon  the  bosom  of  his  snows, 
In  mockery  of  spring.     Where  are  the  forms 
Of  maiden  beauty  and  of  manly  power 
That  crushed  the  tender  grass  beneath  their  feet? 
Sleep  they  in  their  own  footsteps?     Does  the  grass 
Grow  over  them  secure  ?     The  votive  wreath, 


20  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Hanging  upon  the  headstone  of  this  grave, 

Perchance  conceals  a  name  which  one  time  passed 

From  lip  to  lip  like  cheering  news ;  the  eyes 

Of  young  and  old  grew  bright  with  heart-born  ease, 

To  hear  her  foot-fall  on  the  cottage-floor ; 

And  some,  no  doubt,  burned  with  a  warmer  fire 

That  smouldered  shyly,  and  went  out  unseen — 

An  inner  torture.     Let  me  raise  the  garland. 

"  Griulia,"  and  nothing  more.     Whose  grave  is  this  ? 

PODESTA. 

My  daughter's. — Heaven  protect  your  life  !  how  pale, 
How  very  pale  you  turn  ! 

DUKE  ODO. 

What,  I?— indeed?— 
Well,  well,  I  am  a  soldier,  and  my  wounds 
Will  twinge  sometimes.     Besides,  I  felt  a  shock 
Recoil  upon  me,  at  my  sudden  burst 
Into  your  sacred  grief.     Pray  pardon  me. — 
Whose  tomb  is  that? — yonder  great,  haughty  work 
That  seems  to  rise,  like  purse-puffed  insolence, 
Among  the  humbler  grave-stones,  crying,  "  See, 
Even  in  death  I  keep  my  wonted  state !" 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  21 

PODESTA. 

Signer,  you  wrong  the  dead.     The  clay  beneath 
Asked  only  to  be  tombed  in  open  ground, 
Where  the  deep  sky  might  stretch  above  his  head, 
The  bright  flowers  grow,  and  the  south  breezes  bring 
A  noise  of  running  waters,  and  a  gush 
Of  drowsy  murmurs,  rustling  through  the  trees, 
Forever  round  him.     'Twas  his  fancy.     He 
Shuddered  with  horror  when  the  thought  would  come 
Of  his  ancestral  crypts,  where  daylight  turned 
Into  an  oozy  dampness,  worse  than  night. 
"  How  shall  I  lie  with  patience  all  the  years 
Earth  has  in  store  for  her,  beneath  a  place 
At  which  my  dullest  instincts  cower  with  fear? 
Lay  me  beneath  the  sun,"  he  ever  said. 
Age  has  its  toys,  like  childhood  j  this  was  his. 
So,  when  he  died,  through  superstitious  dread — 
But  more  through  love — with  smothered  discontent, 
They  laid  him  there,  and  piled  that  pompous  mass — 
Which  wrongs  the  spirit  of  his  last  request — 
High  over  him.     That  tomb  is  old  Duke  Odo's. 

DUKE  ODO. 

Heaven  rest  his  soul ! 


22  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

PODESTA. 

Amen  !     My  Giulia  loved  him- 
Though  she  had  little  reason — to  the  last. 

DUKE  ODO. 

How  long  has  she  been  dead  ? 

PODESTA. 

Why — let  me  see. 

Since  young  Count  Odo  buckled  on  his  arms — 
He  is  the  duke  now,  but  I  still  forget — 
Is  nigh  a  score  of  years  :  my  daughter  died 
A  twelvemonth  from  the  day  he  journeyed  hence. 
Oh,  weary  time  !     And  Ugo,  too,  is  dead ; 
Daughter  and  son  are  lying  side  by  side : 
The  fruit  has  fallen,  but  the  old  trunk  stands, 
Forlorn  and  barren,  rooted  yet  in  life. 
;Tis  a  long  story ;  would  you  hear  it  all? 
Past  griefs  are  garrulous,  and  slighted  age 
Is  pleased  to  listen  to  its  own  thin  voice. 
Sit  there  on  Giulia's  grave — the  sod  is  fresh — 
I'll  find  a  seat  on  Hugo's. 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTEE.  23 

DUKE  ODO. 

Nay,  nay,  signer; 

A  maiden's  grave  is  of  choice  sanctity  : 
I'll  stand  and  listen. 

PODESTA. 

Please  yourself;  I'll  sit. 
This  tale  could  not  be  told  to  every  ear ; — 
Though,  after  all,  'tis  a  mere  history 
Of  how  a  maiden  lived,  how  loved,  how  died : 
A  simple  matter,  such  as  gossips  vex 
Our  sleepy  ears  with  round  a  winter's  fire. 
Yet,  for  all  this,  a  sympathetic  heart, 
Like  that  you  seem  to  own,  is  only  fit 
To  hold  the  pure  distilment  of  such  tears 
As  early  sorrow  sheds.     Shall  I  go  on  ? 
Or  do  I  blunder  in  my  thought  of  you  ? 

DUKE  ODO. 
Of  me !     0  heaven  !     (Aside.)     No,  no. 

PODESTA. 

Well,  let  me  think. 

On  her  twelfth  birthday  my  child,  Giulia — 
I  now  may  say  it,  she  is  dead  so  long — 


21  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Was  fairer  than  the  rose  she  loved  so  much, 

White  as  the  lily  were  her  virgin  thoughts, 

Her  pride  as  humble  as  the  violet  j 

Her  fancies  trained  as  easily  as  the  vine 

That  loves  a  strong  support  to  grow  around, 

And  grows  not  upward,  if  not  upward  held  : 

So  all  her  pliant  nature  leaned  upon 

Me  and  her  brother,  Ugo.     Sweeter  far 

Than  rose  or  lily,  violet  or  vine, 

Though  they  could  gather  all  their  charms  in  one, 

Was  the  united  being  of  my  child, 

Just  as  she  stepped  beyond  her  childish  ways, 

And  lightly  trod  the  paths  of  womanhood. 

Only  there  was  this  one  defect  in  her — 

If  a  half  beauty  may  be  called  defect — 

She  was  too  rare,  too  airy,  too  refined, 

Too  much  of  essence,  and  too  little  flesh, 

For  the  rude  struggles  of  rough-handed  earth. 

Even  her  very  life  seemed  bound  to  her 

By  frailer  tenures  than  belong  to  us. 

There  was  no  compact  between  heaven  and  earth 

Regarding  her.     She  had  no  term  to  live, 

No  time  to  die.     Within  her  life  and  death 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  25 

Seemed  ever  striving  for  the  mastery ; 
And  she  on  either  smiled  with  equal  cheer. 
She  was  a  product  of  her  native  air, 
Born  from  the  breath  of  flowers,  the  dews  of  night, 
The  balm  of  morning,  the  melodious  strains 
That  haunt  our  twilight,  waning  with  the  moon. 
Each  unsubstantial  thing  took  form  in  her ; 
Even  her  country's  sun  had  shot  its  fire 
Through  all  her  nature,  and  burnt  deeply  down 
Into  her  soul : — Here  was  the  curse  of  all ! 
Count  Odo — mark  the  contrast — so  we  called, 
Through  ancient  courtesy,  the  old  duke's  son — 
Came  from  the  Roman  breed  of  Italy. 
A  hundred  Caesars  poured  their  royal  blood 
Through  his  full  veins.     He  was  both  flint  and  fire; 
Haughty  and  headlong,  shy,  imperious, 
Tender,  disdainful,  tearful,  full  of  frowns — 
Cold  as  the  ice  on  Etna's  wintry  brow, 
And  hotter  than  its  flame.     All  these  by  turns. 
A  mystery  to  his  tutors  and  to  me — 
Yet  some  have  said  his  father  fathomed  him — 
A  mystery  to  my  daughter,  but  a  charm 
Deeper  than  magic.     Him  my  daughter  loved. — 
3 


26  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

DUKE  ODO. 

Loved  !     Are  you  sane  ? 

PODESTA. 

The  thing  seems  strange  enough, 
That  love  should  draw  my  tender  fluttercr 
Around  this  jetting  flame;  but  so  it  was. 
She  loved  so  truly,  and  she  flew  so  near — 
But  I  forestall  the  end. 

DUKE  ODO. 

Oh,  misery !     (Aside.") 

PODESTA. 

My  functions  drew  me  to  the  castle  oft, 
Thither  sometimes  my  daughter  went  with  me; 
And  I  have  noticed  how  young  Odo's  eyes 
"Would  light  her  up  the  stairway,  lead  her  on 
From  room  to  room,  through  hall  and  corridor, 
Showing  her  wonders,  which  were  stale  to  him, 
With  a  new  strangeness :  for  familiar  things, 
Beneath  her  eyes,  grew  glorified  to  him, 
And  woke  a  strain  of  boyish  eloquence, 
Dressed  with  high  thoughts  and  fluent  images, 
That  sometimes  made  him  wonder  at  himself, 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  27 

Who  had  been  blind  so  long  to  every  charm 

Which  her  admiring  fancy  gave  his  home. 

Often  I  caught  them  standing  rapt  before 

Some  barbarous  portrait;  grim  with  early  art — 

A  Gorgon,  to  a  nicely  balanced  eye, 

That  scarcely  hinted  at  humanity ; 

Yet  they  would  crown  it  with  the  port  of  Jove, 

Make  every  wrinkle  a  heroic  scar, 

And  light  that  garbage  of  forgotten  times 

With  such  a  legendary  halo,  as  would  add 

Another  lustre  to  the  Golden  Book. 

At  first  the  children  pleased  me;  many  a  laugh, 

That  reddened  them,  I  owed  their  young  romance. 

But  the  time  sped,  and  Giulia  ripened  too, 

Yet  would  not  deem  herself  the  less  a  child : 

And  when  I  clad  me  for  the  castle,  she 

Would  deck  herself  in  her  most  childish  gear, 

And  lay  her  hand  in  mine,  and  tranquilly 

Look  for  the  kindness  in  my  eyes.     She  called 

Odo  her  playfellow—"  The  little  boy 

Who  showed  the  pictures,  and  the  blazoned  books, 

The  glittering  armor  and  the  oaken  screen, 

Grotesque  with  wry-faced  purgatorial  shapes 


28  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Twisted  through  all  its  leaves  and  knotted  vines ; 

And  the  grand,  solemn  window,  rich  with  forms 

Of  showy  saints  in  holiday  array 

Of  green,  gold,  red,  orange,  and  violet, 

With  the  pale  Christ  who  towered  above  them  all 

Dropping  a  ruby  splendor  from  his  side." 

She  told  how  "  Odo — silly  child  !— would  try 

To  catch  the  window's  glare  upon  her  neck, 

Or  her  round  arms;"  and  how  "  the  flatterer  vowed 

The  gleam  upon  her  temple  seemed  to  pale 

Beside  the  native  color  of  her  cheek." 

Prattle  like  this  enticed  me  to  her  wish, 

Though  cooler  reason  shook  his  threatening  hand, 

And  counseled  flat  denial.     Till  at  length 

Ugo,  my  son,  stung  by  the  village  taunts 

Which  the  duke's  menials  had  set  going  round, 

Grew  sad  and  moody  with  an  inward  shame, 

That  soon  ran  over  in  a  wrathful  stream 

Of  most  unfilial  censure.     "  Look  you,  sir," — 

Beating  his  sword-hilt  with  his  furious  hand 

Till  blade  and  scabbard  rang  like  clashing  brands — 

"  This  never  shall  be  said  !     By  Mary's  tears, 

I'll  cleave  the  next  bold  slanderer  to  the  beard ! 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTEK.  29 

And  you,  sir — you  who  are  the  cause  of  it — 
Look  that  your  house  be  stainless.     Breed  no  trulls 
For  your  liege  lord  \  or  if  you  needs  must  pimp, 
Look  farther  from  your  home  !"     Here  was  a  strait ! 
The  partial  justice  of  his  hot  rebuke 
Pardoned  its  disrespect,  and  sealed  my  lips 
Against  reproaches :  so  I  stammered  out, 
"  Ugo,  you  rave."     "  Rave !  only  look  to  it, 
Or  I  may  rave  in  action !"     Down  the  hall,  * 

Black  as  a  thunder-cloud,  he  swept  along, 
Darkening  the  way  before  him.     I  awoke. 
The  shameful  fear  stood  imminent;  even  now 
Might  be  an  age  too  late.     But  though  delayed, 
Duty  must  be  no  reckoner  of  time  ; 
An  act  good  once  is  good  forever.     So, 
When  Giulia  sought  me  for  the  usual  walk, 
I  put  her  tears  and  her  aside  together ; 
Not  sternly,  kindly,  but  inflexibly. 
Then  all  at  once  that  rapid  sorcerer, 
The  human  heart,  lit  a  new  light  within  her. 
Still  as  life  may  be,  flushed  from  brow  to  breast 
With  modest  scarlet,  by  my  side  she  paused, 
Tracing  the  mazes  of  bewildered  thoughts. 
3* 


80  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

I  turned  and  left  her;  yet  whene'er  I  stopped 

And  cast  a  backward  glance,  fixed  as  before, 

Her  eyes  inverted  on  her  inner  self, 

And  all  her  senses  idle,  Giulia  stood, 

Seeming  her  own  excelling  counterfeit. 

Some  strange  thing  stirred  within  her,  that  was  plain; 

So  I,  with  just  the  sapience  of  our  race, 

Set  my  poor  wits  to  reasoning  down  my  fears. 

Half  up  the  hill,  Count  Odo,  like  a  stag 

Lured  by  the  mimicked  bleating  of  his  doe, 

Burst  from  the  bushes,  and  before  me  stood 

With  such  a  wonder  as  the  antlered  king 

Must  feel  before  the  hunter.     Not  a  word 

Nor  sign  of  greeting  did  he  make  to  me : 

One  flash  of  his  dark  eyes  along  the  path — 

A  look  which  crossed  my  person  as  if  I 

Were  rock,  or  tree,  or  mere  transparent  air — 

And  then  his  haughty  nature  towered  aloft, 

Magnificent  as  sunrise,  calm  as  fate. 

Back  through  the  thicket,  deigning  not  to  part 

The  netted  branches  with  his  hand,  he  strode, 

Wrapped  in  the  grandeur  of  his  boundless  pride. 

But  other  shapes  his  refluent  passion  took 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  31 

Ere  his  heart  settled ;  for  the  servants  said 
The  house  became  a  bedlam.     In  his  wrath 
He  slashed  the  pictures  which  poor  Griulia  loved, 
Tore  up  the  missals,  hacked  the  carved  screen, 
And  with  his  impious  hand  sheer  through  the  glass 
Of  the  great  window — through  the  very  Christ — 
Hurled  a  great  oaken  settle,  overweight 
For  two  stout  yeomen.     Said  the  old  duke  naught? 
Yes,  merely  this — "Let  all  the  pictures  hang, 
Spread  out  the  books,  cover  the  screen  no  more, 
Let  heaven  have  entrance  through  the  broken  panes : 
These  wrecks  shall  be  Count  Odo's  monuments — 
The  guide-posts  pointing  him  to  better  things." 
And  he  was  wise.     Ugo  seemed  pleased  awhile ; 
For  Giulia  was  dumb  about  the  castle. 
I  went  and  came,  but  never  saw  my  child 
Standing  upon  our  threshold  for  nay  hand, 
As  in  days  past;  and  when  Count  Odo's  name 
Came  up  at  table,  not  a  word  from  her 
Who  once  would  leap,  like  lightning,  at  that  sound, 
And  bear  it  off  triumphant  from  our  lips, 
Kinging  his  praises  till  her  listeners  tired : 
Only,  at  times,  I  caught  a  shy,  quick  glance 


32  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Of  bashful  cunning  glittering  in  her  eyes, 

As  covertly,  under  her  downcast  brows, 

She  shot  them  round  her.     Her  familiar  cares, 

The  usual  duties  of  our  small  abode, 

"Were  duly  ordered.     Her  accustomed  walks, 

At  morn  and  evening,  through  the  forest  path 

Whereon  she  sowed  her  little  charities 

Among  the  woodmen,  and  reaped  golden  stores 

Of  grateful  smiles,  were  taken  as  of  old. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  I  marked  a  peevish  haste 

When  aught  delayed  her,  and  a  curt  rebuff 

When  I  or  Ugo  proffered  company ; 

And  sometimes  from  these  walks  she  would  return 

With  something  heavy  at  her  heart,  a  grief 

That  often  rose  to  her  convulsed  lips, 

And  then  dropped  backward  to  her  heart  again. 

I  counted  this  a  shadow,  cast  on  her 

By  the  distressful  sights  of  poverty 

Within  the  forest ;  and  I  talked  at  large, 

In  the  smooth,  flowing  phrases  of  the  rich — 

When  their  world- wide  philanthropy  unlocks 

The  liberal  mouth,  and  seals  the  pocket  up : 

In  good  round  sentences  I  held  discourse 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  3 

On  the  huge  evils  of  our  social  state, 

And  theorized,  and  drew  fine  instances, 

Until  the  starving  beggar  at  iny  door 

Was  clean  forgotten.     I  cajoled  the  poor, 

I  flattered  them,  I  called  them  God's  own  care ; 

Asked  how  the  ravens  fed  ?     The  smitten  rock, 

The  quails  and  manna,  were  rare  figures  :  thus 

I  shifted  all  the  burden  on  the  Lord, 

And  felt  the  lighter. — I  have  changed  since  then. 

My  daughter  listened;  but,  at  times,  I  feared 

Her  mind  was  far  away,  and  all  my  words 

Buzzed  in  her  ears,  like  a  crone's  spinning-wheel, 

That  only  chimes  in  with  her  vagrant  thoughts, 

Unheard  until  the  slighted  threads  divide, 

And  startle  her  with  silence.     Giulia,  thus, 

Would  rise  with  something  like  a  guilty  pang, 

And  busy  her  about  the  household  work, 

Leaving  my  words  unquestioned.     So  things  went 

Till  generous  autumn  shook  his  jolly  torch 

Around  the  land,  and  seared  the  rusty  grass, 

And  scorched  the  trees,  and  shook  their  fruitage  down, 

And  piled  the  dripping  wains  with  purple  grapes, 

And  turned  the  year  into  a  jubilee. 


34  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Then  Ugo  in  all  sadness  came  to  me, 

Flushed  with  the  chase,  yet  redder  dyed  with  shame, 

And  in  the  pauses  of  his  sighs  told  this  : 

A  wounded  boar,  flying  before  his  spear, 

Forsook  the  closer  covert  of  the  wood 

And,  mad  with  terror,  harrowed  through  the  glades, 

Trailing  his  life  behind  him.     Towards  the  town, 

Followed  by  Ugo  and  his  baying  hounds, 

The  forest  ruffian  sped ;  but  when  the  dogs 

Laid  their  hot  muzzles  to  his  straining  flank, 

Into  the  open  road  he  plunged  amain, 

And  scoured  the  peaceful  pathway.     Naught  availed ; 

His  shadow  kept  not  closer  than  the  pack. 

His  strength  gave  way,  and  Ugo's  crusted  spear 

Again  was  busy  in  his  bristling  side, 

When,  swerving  from  a  blow,  with  sudden  dart 

He  cleared  the  road,  drove  through  a  copse  of  oaks, 

And  Ugo  heard  a  woman  scream.     0  joy  ! 

0  sorrow  !  turning  what  we  take  as  joy 

Into  thy  own  sad  likeness,  how  is  man 

Balanced  between  ye  !     And  what  heart  may  say 

"  This  thing  is  pleasure, "  till  its  fleeting  sense 

Be  past  and  gone  forever?     Ugo  stood, 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  35 

As  if  Medusa  stared  him  in  the  face, 
Breast-high  amid  the  coppice,  and  beheld 
Beneath  a  patriarchal  oak  Count  Odo  stand, 
With  one  strong  hand  upholding  Giulia, 
While  in  the  other  flashed  his  wary  brand, 
Cutting  and  thrusting  at  the  desperate  boar. 

DUKE  ODO. 

I  passed  that  spot,  threading  the  forest  path, 
An  isle  of  greensward  in  a  sea  of  leaves; 
"  Here,"  cried  I,  gazing  on  a  stricken  oak 
WThose  mouldering  remnants  told  of  greatness  gone — 
"  Here  the  avenging  hand  of  God  has  struck, 
In  lightning  and  in  thunder  reaching  down ! 
Yon  ghastly  culprit,  lopped  of  every  limb, 
His  bark  curled  upward  in  a  hundred  scrolls, 
His  fruitless  acorns  filled  with  barren  dust, 
Points  to  a  crime  as  clearly  advertised 
As  if  a  herald  blew  it  to  the  wind/' 
My  thought  was  just;  two  hearts  were  here  betrayed 
While  heaven  was  near  them.     But  did  Ugo  leave 
These  hapless  children  to  the  raging  beast? 


36  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

PODESTA. 

Help  was  not  needed.     Ugo's  hunter  eye 
Saw  in  that  hand  a  weapon  overmatch 
For  a  bayed  boar,  without  the  hounds  that  hung 
Still  tugging  at  the  monster's  brindled  haunch : 
So,  undiscovered,  from  the  wood  he  turned, 
And  bore  the  heavy  secret  home  to  me. 
Why  rage  did  not  o'ercome  him  in  that  hour, 
Why  he,  in  wonted  fury,  did  not  slay 
The  two  together,  is  heaven's  mystery. 
Shame — loathful,  cruel,  degrading,  abject  shame — 
That  quite  unmanned  him,  this  alone  was  his ; 
No  thought  of  vengeance.     "  She  may  yet  be  pure/ 
Said  Ugo;  and  the  misery  of  a  thought 
That  dared  suppose  her  other,  bowed  his  head, 
Crimson  with  meaning,  to  his  outstretched  palm : 
"If  she  is  not,  Count  Odo  lives  one  hour;" 
And  he  glanced  sideways  at  the  horologe. 
Soon  Giulia  came ;  our  fears  might  breathe  awhile. 
She  heard  with  patience,  and  replied  with  tears, 
Heightening  her  fault,  and  taking  Odo's  blame. 
"The  guilt  is  mine,"  she  said;  "I  met  him  still: 
I  staid  not  to  be  wooed,  I  went  for  it. 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  37 

I  knew  it  to  be  wicked,  but  I  bore 
The  crime  for  its  strange  sweetness.     Woe  is  me ! 
That  sin  has  bounties,  while  poor  virtue  starves." 
I  reasoned  with  her,  setting  love  aside, 
That  young  Count  Odo  never  could  be  hers ; 
I  showed  the  gulf  between  our  wide  estates ; 
I  said  a  dukedom  could  not  wed  a  plot 
Of  narrow  acres;  and  I  raised  a  fear 
Of  dismal  vengeance,  from  the  old  duke's  hand, 
Upon  my  head.     Count  Odo,  even  he, 
Treated  with  justice  merely,  must  endure 
Some  direful  grief.     At  this  she  blanched  and  shook. 
I  balanced  chances  with  the  nicest  art : 
"  What  if  the  duke  consent,  would  Odo  too — 
That  hot  proud  boy  who  from  his  regal  height 
Looks,  like  an  eagle,  down  upon  the  world — 
Would  he — ha !  ha ! — lead  such  a  bride  as  you — 
A  new  Giralda — to  the  altar-stone  ? 
Why,  child,  the  pathway  between  home  and  church 
Would  show  more  perils  than  the  Cretan  maze/' 
Then  I  advised  her.     "  Daughter,  be  content 
With  heaven's  appointment;  humbly  walk  the  ground, 
Nor  fly  your  fancies  where  yon  onnnot  follow; 
4 


38  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

He  is  as  far  above  you  as  the  stars." 
This  she  believed;  nought  was  too  high  for  him, 
Nothing  too  low  for  her,  compared  with  him. 
But  when  I  named  the  danger  of  such  loves, 
How  reason  can  be  melted  in  the  glow 
Of  tempted  passion,  when  I  almost  spoke 
In  broad,  blunt  terms,  as  Ugo  spoke  to  me — 
So  hard  it  was  to  make  my  meaning  clear — 
All  the  proud  innocence  of  woman's  soul 
Bounded  aloft  in  dreadful  majesty; 
And  such  indignant  eloquence  outburst, 
At  the  gross  taunt,  that  I,  by  helpless  signs, 
Was  glad  to  beg  her  mercy.     Well,  the  end 
Of  this  long  tossing  to  and  fro  of  words, 
Was  that  my  daughter,  bowing  to  my  will 
With  that  obedience  she  had  ever  shown, 
Promised  to  shun  Count  Odo  from  that  hour. 
She  kept  her  faith ;  though  Odo  came  by  day 
With  missions  from  the  castle  that  outsummed 
His  several  hairs,  and  were  of  less  respect; 
Though,  in  the  evening,  I  have  seen  his  form 
Skirting  the  roadside  where  my  daughter  took 
Her  silent  walk  with  Ugo;  though  the  night, 


THE    PODESTA  S    DAUGHTER. 

From  nocturns  unto  cock-crow,  could  not  rest 

For  the  unceasing  tinkle  of  his  lute, 

And  such  faint  scraps  of  doleful  melody 

As  he  might  venture  with  his  trembling  voice. 

Now  a  new  fear  began.     His  father's  eyes 

Could  not  have  missed  Count  Odo's  altered  ways ; 

And  soon  dread  proof  was  given  of  what  a  man, 

Good  in  all  else,  would  forfeit  to  uphold 

The  periled  lustre  of  his  heritage. 

Ugo  and  Giulia,  in  a  lonesome  place, 

By  a  masked  ruffian  were  assailed ;  and  though 

Both  mask  and  sweeping  cloak  gave  Ugo  odds 

Against  the  villain,  there  was  stirring  work, 

And  wounds  on  both  sides.     Had  not  Giulia's  voice, 

Shrieking  in  terror  at  the  bloody  sight, 

Prevailed  more  surely  than  brave  Ugo's  sword, 

Heaven  knows  what  purpose  might  have  been  achieved. 

The  vintage  came,  with  it  the  festival; 

And,  strange  to  say,  Duke  Odo  left  his  books, 

To  throw  a  chilling  stiffness  on  the  dance 

With  his  unusual  presence.     How  my  heart 

Shrank  into  nothing,  when  the  aged  duke, 

Tottering  along  the  greensward,  slowly  came 


40  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Before  my  daughter,  and  with  gallant  words — 

Stranger  than  roses  in  December's  snow — 

Lightly  among  the  dancers  led  my  child. 

"Ugo,"  I  whispered,  "in  the  name  of  heaven, 

Stand  near  your  sister — hear  the  duke's  discourse — 

Perhaps  he'll  traffic  in  his  son's  behalf. 

That  girl  is  doomed  past  saving!"     Ugo  said, 

"  Let  him  but  trade  with  me;  I'll  name  a  price 

To  stagger  his  whole  dukedom  I"     By  and  by, 

With  smiles  and  nods  and  gentle  courtesies, 

The  duke  returned  to  me.     I  almost  snatched 

My  startled  daughter  from  his  outstretched  hand; 

And  as  the  rustics  cheered  him  to  his  horse, 

Through  the  confusion,  on  the  wings  of  fear, 

I  fled  with  Giulia ;  nor  till  bolt  and  bar 

Rang  in  their  sockets,  and  I  saw  the  spear 

And  rusted  sword,  I  bore  awhile  in  Spain, 

Felt  I  the  safer.     Ugo  came  behind : 

He  had  heard  nothing  but  the  common  talk 

Twixt  high  and  humble; — questions  from  the  duke, 

And  meek  replies  from  Giulia.     Once,  indeed, 

He  wheeled  his  ponderous  learning  slowly  round 

To  bear  upon  her  knowledge;  and  seemed  pleased 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  41 

To  find  she  knew  this  planet  is  a  sphere, 
Gold  not  a  salt,  and  spirit  not  a  substance ; 
That  nature's  movements  are  through  various  laws, 
Diverse,  and  yet  harmonious  :  but  when  she, 
lladiant  with  faith,  proclaimed  the  central  light, 
Without  which  reason  were  a  helpless  drudge, 
From  which,  and  to  which,  all  creation  flows, 
And  called  it  God : — Ah  I  there  her  soul  had  flown 
A  league  beyond  his  books ;  and  from  that  thought 
The  fool  and  the  philosopher  might  start 
On  equal  ground.     The  duke  was  still  awhilo. 
Then  they  talked  o'er  the  poets — Petrarch's  love, 
And  Laura's  coyness,  Tasso's  holy  war, 
And  the  stupendous  Florentine.     Just  here 
The  duke's  smiles  grew  most  fatherly,  and  here 
The  dance  was  ended.     "  Saw  you  not,"  said  Ugo, 
"  Count  Odo  join  his  father  near  the  wood?" 
aln  good  faith,  no  !"     That  question  had  upset 
My  growing  confidence.     "  Some  plot  is  here — 
Some  plot  to  be  outplotted."     "  Have  her  wed — 
Ay,  wed  her  to  a  clod,  a  slave,  a  beast — 
To  anything  that  can  be  made  a  groom  \ 
But  keep  her  honest !"     Ugo  shouted  forth. 
4* 


42  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

"  A  wise  thought !     Call  your  sister."     Giulia  came. 

A  little  hope  was  fluttering  in  her  heart, 

And  warming  one  small  spot  on  either  cheek ; 

That  died  away,  and  never  woke  again, 

At  my  first  sentence.     "  Marry !" — she  was  firm — 

"  Not  all  that  cowards  fear — not  all  the  pangs 

This  groaning  earth  has  borne  since  man  left  Eden — 

Not  all  the  cheating  baits  of  fruitful  sense — 

Ambition's  crown,  toil's  gain,  fame's  tainted  breath — 

Not  all  the  spirit  dreams  of  future  bliss — 

No,  nor  the  dictate  of  the  holy  church — 

The  pope's  commandment,  barbed  with  every  ill 

That  may  be  thundered  from  Saint  Peter's  chair — 

Should  fright,  bribe,  master,  or  so  far  corrupt 

The  heart  which  God  assigned  her  to  keep  pure !" 

She  spoke  this  with  her  virgin  eyes  aflame, 

Blazing  like  Mars  when  he  has  clomb  the  sky, 

And  looks  down  hotly  from  his  sovereign  height. 

I  talked  to  her  until  the  daylight  wore, 

And  evening  lent  its  pathos  to  my  words, 

Of  what  a  daughter  owes  a  parent's  love — 

And  I  had  been  both  parents  joined  in  one; 

Of  the  great  blessing  which  her  mother  laid 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  43 

Upon  her  infant's  forehead,  as  she  stood 

Upon  the  verge  of  Paradise  and  saw, 

Forward  and  backward,  heaven  and  earth  at  once. 

Would  she  be  false  to  that  ?     Move  saintly  eyes ; 

And  wet  the  golden  floor  of  heaven  with  tears  ? 

I  showed  the  duke's  omnipotent  command ; 

The  long  and  sweeping  arm  of  potentates; 

The  feeble  shield  of  justice,  when  the  voice 

Of  poor,  oppressed  humanity  is  drowned 

In  the  loud  roar  of  an  impending  doom. 

I  made  my  gray  hairs  plead  to  her.     I  talked 

Of  Ugo's  blighted  prospect,  and  the  fate 

Which  hung  above  us,  sure  to  fall  at  last ; 

Talked  till  my  passion  worked  me  into  tears, 

And  she  gave  way — not  slowly,  all  at  once, 

With  desperate  haste.     "Do  with  me  what  you  will; 

But  oh !  in  pity,  get  me  to  my  grave 

As  soon  as  may  be.     Life  is  wearying  me ; 

I  would  have  rest  from  that  which  is  within," 

Said  Giulia;  and  her  shaking  hand  she  laid, 

With  a  low  plaintive  sob,  upon  her  heart. 

I  offered  comfort.     "  You  shall  not  be  wed" — 

"No,  by  the  saints!"  roared  Ugo,  bursting  through 


44  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

A  flood  of  running  tears.     "Only,  my  child, 

We'll  meet  their  arts  with  arts.     We'll  gossip  round 

That  thou  hast  been  betrothed.     Some  village  beau — 

Florio,  thy  cousin,  will  be  proud  of  it — 

Shall  be  a  frequent  suitor  at  my  house; 

And  he  shall  be  thy  company  to  mass — 

He'll  spread  thy  cushion  with  a  tender  care, 

I  warrant  me  I"  and  then  I  tried  to  laugh. 

"  Why  here's  a  plot  to  found  a  play  upon ! — 

Thou  didst  like  Florio."     "I  shall  hate  him  now," 

Giulia  replied;  and  her  eyes  glared  at  me 

With  steely  lustre,  a  blank  outer  light. 

"  Give  me  but  time.     Just  lead  the  duke  astray 

Until  I  put  my  goods  in  proper  trim, 

And  we  will  fly  the  country,  and  his  wrath, 

If  nothing  better  offer."     Giulia  raised 

The  hollow  spectre  of  a  long  lost  smile, 

And  went  her  way. 

DUKE  ODO. 
There  was  a  murder  done ! 

PODESTA. 

It  may  be,  signer ;  but  my  acts  were  squared, 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  45 

Both  to  my  daughter's  interest  and  the  duke's, 
As  well  as  my  poor  judgment  would  allow. 

DUKE  ODO. 

Forgive  my  comment,  and  resume  the  tale. 

PODESTA. 

The  rumored  marriage  reached  Count  Odo's  ears. 

'Twas  said,  at  first,  he  doubted ;  but  his  pride, 

Now  he  was  older,  and  held  firmer  rein 

Above  his  passions,  did  not  vent  itself 

In  chilling  looks  and  following  agonies  : 

The  pictures,  books,  screen,  window,  well  had  taught 

Their  storied  lesson.     Marble  calmness  now, 

A  mien  that  never  altered  with  the  times, 

Was  his  high  state.     But  when  the  rumor  grew 

A  settled  matter,  and  the  people  talked 

Of  Florio  and  Giulia  in  one  breath, 

Coupling  their  names  as  if  they  could  not  part, 

Count  Odo  kindled.     In  a  forest  path 

He  came  on  Florio.     Face  to  face  they  stood. 

Florio  in  terror,  and  the  scornful  eyes 

Of  Odo  ranging  him  from  head  to  foot. 

He  spoke  at  last — "  Florio," — his  voice  was  soft 


46  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

As  the  south  wind — "  Florio,  the  world  has  said 
You  are  betrothed  to  Giulia ;  is  it  true  ?" 
Then  the  habitual  lie  was  stammered  forth. 
Awhile  Count  Odo's  hand  upon  his  sword 
Hung,  like  a  mountain  pard  upon  the  spring, 
And  the  long  veins  went  twisting  through  his  neck, 
Swollen  with  torture ;  but  some  power  within 
Wrested  the  clenched  hand  sharply  from  the  sword, 
And  his  face  calmed,  and  a  most  lordly  smile 
Lit  up  his  features,  as  he  cried  aloud, 
In  strong,  firm  accents,  like  a  martyr  might — 
"  God  bless  you,  Florio  !"  and  burst  in  tears. 
'Twas  the  old  fight  twixt  heaven  and  hell  renewed, 
And,  as  of  old,  the  battle-field  was  pitched 
Within  the  heart  of  man.     Count  Odo  left 
Ere  Florio  could  catch  his  scattered  thoughts. 
On  the  next  day  a  blare  of  trumpets  woke 
The  drowsy  village,  in  scarce  time  to  see 
The  rearward  horsemen  of  a  warlike  band 
Vanish  within  the  forest.     Some  one  said, 
"That  is  Count  Odo  riding  to  the  wars." 
The  wars  have  gone  against  us :  since  that  day 
Thousands  of  hostile  spears  have  ever  lain 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  47 

Between  Count  Odo  and  his  distant  home. 
Sometimes  for  years  in  cities  he  was  pent, 
Sometimes  in  adverse  battles  he  engaged, 
Sometimes  he  skirmished  through  a  long  retreat, 
Hanging  between  the  enemy's  flushed  van 
And  the  down-hearted  soldiers  of  our  rear  j 
But  never  has  a  rumor  of  his  name — 
For  the  foe  barred  direct  intelligence — 
Reached  us  uncoupled  from  the  words  of  praise. 
His  father  died — 

DUKE  ODO. 
And  knew  not  the  deceit  ? 

PODESTA. 

How  could  he  know?     He  died  before  my  child, 
Pining,  'twas  whispered,  for  his  absent  son. 
Within  a  month  poor  Giulia  followed  him : 
I  can  recall  the  time  like  yesterday. 
A  low  fog  lay  upon  the  sodden  land, 
And  on  my  spirits;  from  the  sluggish  clouds, 
That  trailed  their  ragged  skirts  along  the  hills, 
Thick,  moody  showers  were  falling  now  and  then , 
And  when  they  ceased,  the  poplars,  drop  by  drop, 


48  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Kept  their  sad  chime  awake  upon  the  roof. 

Since  Odo  left  us,  Giulia  had  walked 

Her  birth-place  like  a  stranger.     All  the  world, 

Its  sights  of  beauty  clustering  round  her  feet, 

And  all  the  mystery  that  hung  above 

In  the  deep  blue  of  heaven,  seemed  alien  now ; 

Their  power  and  their  significance  were  gone. 

The  sun  burnt  out  before  her  like  a  torch 

Before  a  blind  girl,  and  within  her  sight 

The  brightest  moon  was  blurred  by  dim  eclipse. 

She  seemed  forever  lost  in  solemn  thoughts  : 

Yet  when  we  questioned  what  she  mused  upon, 

"  Nothing,"  she  said,  and  I  believed  it  true ; 

For  strongest  grief  is  thoughtless,  and  retains 

Only  a  stupid  sense  of  pain,  no  form, 

Or  else  we  should  go  mad.     Ugo,  the  while, 

Softened  his  nature  to  a  woman's  ways, 

And  through  the  house  he  went,  with  silent  speed, 

Forestalling  Giulia  in  her  wonted  cares; 

Or  in  the  garden  walk  some  flower  she  loved, 

In  happier  times,  he  planted  full  of  bloom, 

And  smiled  to  see  her  bending  o'er  the  bush, 

Even  with  her  vacant  eyes:  but  I  have  marked, 


49 


When  thus  her  memory  stirred,  the  flower  was  wet 
With  other  drops  than  morning's.     As  the  year 
Rounded  to  winter,  Giulia's  cheek  assumed 
A  kindred  color  with  the  falling  leaf, 
And  her  eyes  brightened,  and  her  thin  white  hands 
Grew  thinner  yet,  her  footstep  lost  its  spring, 
And  life  seemed  beating  a  slow-paced  retreat 
From  all  its  outposts.     Just  before  the  day — 
The  irksome,  dismal  day — of  which  I  spoke, 
She  looked  as  if  her  frame  had  suddenly 
Crumbled  away  beneath  her,  though  its  life 
Still  haunted  round  her  heart.     She  knew  her  state, 
And  called  us  to  her.     "  Father,  first  to  you, 
I  have  no  blame,  nothing  but  thanks  to  give, 
And  dying  blessings.     Ugo,  so  to  you, 
Who  bore  the  wayward  tricks  of  my  disease 
With  so  much  kindness,  such  unfaltering  love" — 
God  bless  her,  she  was  patient  as  a  saint ! — 
"I  do  not  ask  the  motives  of  your  acts; 
For  since  you  chose  them,  they  must  be  the  best. 
I  have  one  word  to  leave  behind  me — hark  ! 
I  loved  Count  Odo,  and  I  die  for  it. 
This  ring,  which  slides  about  my  finger  so, 
5 


50  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

He  gave  me  once — pray  bury  it  with  me. 
But  I  beseech  you — ay,  you  promise  me 
Before  I  ask  it ;  that  is  very  kind — 
If  Odo  should  return,  to  make  him  know 
That  I  by  deed,  or  word,  or  sign,  or  thought, 
Was  never  false  to  him.     And  tell  him,  too, 
Into  the  grave,  with  this  one  pledge  of  love, 
I  go  rejoicing;  and  he'll  see  it  shine 
Upon  my  finger  thus  in  Paradise. 
Odo,  dear  Odo — father — brother — God, 
Have  mercy  on  me !"     And  she  closed  her  eyes, 
Shutting  the  world  forever  from  her  sight. 
Soldier,  you  weep ! 

DUKE  ODO. 

Weep !  am  I  stone,  old  man  ? 
O  shallow  reason !     0  deep  heart  of  youth  ! 
What  fearful  issue  has  your  conflict  wrought ! 
O  father,  blinder  than  the  burrowing  mole, 
To  trust  the  mere  deductions  of  your  brain 
Before  the  holy  instincts  of  that  love 
Which,  like  a  second  revelation,  God 
Has  founded  on  our  nature  !     0  false  pride, 
Dark  sensual  demon,  that  would  rather  writhe 


THE  PODESTA'S  DAUGHTER.  51 

An  age  of  agony  than  ope  thy  lips — 

Curse  to  thyself,  and  curse  to  thy  possessor — 

0,  hadst  thou  slept  one  moment,  what  a  flood 

Of  golden  sunshine  happy  love  had  poured 

Upon  the  desert  darkness  of  two  hearts ! 

Old  man,  old  man,  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  know  what  narrow  mists,  what  threads  of  will, 

Divide  a  life  of  full,  contented  bliss 

From  years  of  starved  and  utter  misery — 

How  near  our  guideless  feet  may  be  to  one, 

Yet  choose  the  other  !     Had  a  bare  distrust 

Of  your  presuming  wisdom  crossed  your  mind — 

Had  Odo  come  to  you  with  candid  heart, 

And  interchanged  frank  questions  and  replies — 

She  who  is  mouldering  here  might  still  have  bloomed 

To  fragrant  ripeness,  and  we  fools,  who  stand 

Watering  the  relics  of  our  own  misdeeds, 

Might  not  be  mourners.     Woe  to  us,  blind  men, 

We  knit  the  meshes  that  ensnare  ourselves ! 

Now  hear  your  story  closed  by  other  lips. 

Who  was  the  masked  assassin  of  your  child? — 

Count  Odo,  mad  with  the  romantic  wish 

To  rescue  Giulia :     He  it  was  who  fought 


52  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

With  stubborn  Ugo,  burning  with  a  flame 
As  high  as  that  which  lighted  chivalry. 
Why  came  Duke  Odo  to  the  festival  ? — 
To  prove  your  daughter  worthy  of  his  son ; 
And  found  her  so,  beyond  his  topmost  hope, 
And  would  have  crowned  her  with  a  diadem, 
Holding  the  trinket  honored  ! 

PODESTA. 

Gracious  heaven  ! 
And  who  are  you  ! 

DUKE  ODO. 

Count  Odo.     Do  not  stir  : 
From  this  grave  hence,  our  paths  lie  far  apart.     [Exit. 


THE   IVORY   CARVER 


PROLOGUE. 

THREE  spirits,  more  than  angels,  met 
By  an  Arabian  well-side,  set 
Far  in  the  wilderness,  a  place 
Hallowed  by  legendary  grace. 
Here  the  hair-girded  Baptist,  John, 
Had  thrown  his  wearied  being  down, 
And  dreamed  the  grand  prophetic  lore 
Of  what  the  future  held  in  store; 
And  here  our  patient  Christ  had  knelt, 
After  the  baffled  devil  felt 
The  terrors  of  his  stern  reproof, 
And  gazing  through  the  rifted  roof 


54  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Of  palm,  had  child-like  sobbed  and  prayed 
His  soul  to  calmness;  here  allayed 
The  mortal  thirst  which  raged  within, 
Then  turned,  and  all  our  world  of  sin 
Uplifted  on  his  shoulders  vast, 
And  forth  to  toil,  shame,  death,  he  passed. 

A  holy  place  the  spirits  chose 
For  blest  communion ;  but  the  woes 
Which  follow  sin  had  left  a  trace 
Of  gloom  on  each  angelic  face  : — 
Man's  sin,  the  only  grief  which  mars 
The  joy  of  heaven,  and  sadly  jars 
With  its  eternal  harmony. 
One,  chief  among  the  spirits  three, 
Grander  than  either,  more  sedate, 
Wore  yet  a  look  of  hope  elate 
With  higher  knowledge,  larger  trust 
In  the  long  future;  and  the  rust 
Of  week-day  toil  with  earthly  things 
Stained  and  yet  glorified  his  wings. 


THE    IVORY    CARVER.  55 

"  Oh  woe !"  exclaimed  the  spirits  twain, 

"  Time  comes,  time  goes,  and  still  the  train 

Of  human  sin  keeps  pace  with  it. 

The  seasons  change,  the  shadows  flit 

Across  the  world,  tides  ebb  and  flow, 

But  human  guilt  and  human  woe 

Are  ever  stirring  in  the  blood, 

Are  ever  fixed  at  their  full  flood. 

Alas  !  alas  !  alas  !  even  we, 

Poised  in  our  calm  eternity, 

Can  only  see  new  changes  bring 

New  forms  of  sin.     The  offering 

To  death  and  hell  is  overstored, 

Heaven's  poor ;  and  yet  the  patient  Lord 

Bears  with  mankind  for  mankind's  sake. 

Shall  never  vengeful  thunders  wake 

Among  earth's  crashing  hills,  and  bare 

The  horrid  lightning  in  his  lair  ? 

Shall  never  the  tornado  sweep, 

The  earthquake  yawn,  the  rebel  deep 

Scour  the  rich  valleys,  till  the  world — 

Back  into  early  chaos  hurled, 


56  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

With  all  her  pomps  and  grandeurs  rent— 
Though  barren,  may  be  innocent  ?" 
"  Never  !     The  sign  is  set  on  high, 
'Twixt  sunny  earth  and  weeping  sky, 
One  tittle  of  the  spoken  Word 
All  hell  can  change  not,"  said  the  third. 
"  Patience,  dear  brothers  :  ye  who  ask 
Quick,  sweeping  changes,  set  a  task 
Beyond  earth's  power.     She  slowly  draws, 
By  due  procession  of  her  laws, 
Good  out  of  evil.     In  the  ground, 
Dark  and  ill-featured,  seeds  abound, 
Trees  grow  and  blossom,  and  the  flower 
Buds  into  fruit;  yet,  hour  by  hour, 
No  change  we  mark,  until  the  fruit 
Drops  down  full-ripened.     Let  us  suit 
Our  hopes  to  man.     The  child  of  clay 
Through  his  own  nature  wins  his  way; 
Moving  by  slow  and  homely  means 
Towards  the  blind  future,  he  but  gleans 
Behind  your  wide  intelligence, 
Leaping  the  stumbling  bars  of  sense. 


THE   IVORY   CARVER.  57 

Full-armed  with  bounden  wealth  of  thought 

Ye  stand,  and  wonder  at  man's  naught ; 

Scorn  his  poor  ways  and  sluggish  rate, 

Rather  than  gratulate  the  state, 

Uncraniped  by  narrow  time  and  space, 

In  which  ye  move.     Ye  face  to  face 

See  all  things  as  they  are,  he  sees 

By  dim  reflection ;  for  the  lees 

Of  earth  have  settled  in  his  soul, 

And  made  a  turbid  current  roll 

Between  his  mind  and  essence.     Yet 

Even  earthly  natures  may  beget 

Grand  ends,  and  common  things  be  wrought 

To  holiest  uses.     I  in  thought 

Have  seen  the  capability 

Which  lies  within  yon  ivory : — ! 

This  rough,  black  husk,  charred  by  long  age, 

Unmarked  by  man  since,  in  his  rage, 

A  warring  mammoth  shed  it :     Lo ! 

Whiter  than  heaven-sifted  snow, 

Enclosed  within  its  ugly  mask 

Lies  a  world's  wonder ;  and  the  task 


58  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Of  slow  development  shall  be 

Man's  labor  and  man's  glory.     See  !" 

His  foot-tip  touched  it ;  the  rude  bone 

Glowed  through  translucent,  widely  shone 

A  morning  lustre  on  the  palm 

Which  arched  above  it.     All  the  calm 

Of  the  blue  air  was  stirred  again 

With  ecstasy,  as  the  low  strain 

Of  heavenly  language  rose  once  m  )re. 

"  Genius  of  man,  immortal  power, 

Of  birth  celestial,  'tis  thy  hour  ! 

The  doors  of  heaven  wide  open  swing 

One  moment :     Hasten,  ere  thy  wing 

Be  locked  within  the  lucid  wall, 

And  darkness  for  dull  ages  fall 

On  earth  and  man,  our  common  care  !" 

While  yet  his  accents  filled  the  air 

Which  rippled  on  the  heavenly  shore, 

A  fourth  intelligence,  who  bore 

The  semblance  of  a  flickering  flame, 

Steep  downward  from  the  zenith  came, 

Dazzling  the  path  behind  him.     Still, 

Waiting  the  greater  angel's  will, 


THE    IVORY   CARVER.  59 

He  rested  quivering.     "  Spirit,  bear 

This  ivory  to  the  soul  that  dare 

Work  out,  through  joy,  and  care,  and  pain, 

The  thought  which  lies  within  the  grain, 

Hid  like  a  dim  and  clouded  sun. — 

Speed  thee  !"     He  spoke,  and  it  was  done. 


60  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  IVORY  CARVER. 

SILENTLY  sat  the  artist  alone, 

Carving  a  Christ  from  the  ivory  bone. 

Little  by  little,  with  toil  and  pain, 

He  won  his  way  through  the  sightless  grain, 

That  held  and  yet  hid  the  thing  he  sought, 

Till  the  work  stood  up,  a  growing  thought. 

And  all  around  him,  unseen  yet  felt, 

A  mystic  presence  forever  dwelt, 

A  formless  spirit  of  subtle  flame, 

The  light  of  whose  being  went  and  came 

As  the  artist  paused  from  work,  or  bent 

His  whole  heart  to  it  with  firm  intent. 

Serenely  the  spirit  towered  on  high, 

Fixing  the  blaze  of  his  majesty 

Now  north,  now  south,  now  east,  now  west : 

Wherever  the  moody  shadows  pressed 

Their  cloudy  blackness,  and  slyly  sought 

To  creep  o'er  the  work  the  artist  wrought, 


THE    IVORY    CARVER.  61 

A  steady  wrath  in  the  spirit's  gaze 
Withered  the  skirts  of  the  treacherous  haze, 
And  gloomily  backward,  fold  on  fold, 
The  surging  billows  of  darkness  rolled. 

"  Husband,  why  sit  you  ever  alone, 
Carving  your  Christ  from  the  ivory  bone  ? 
0  carve,  I  pray  you,  some  fairy  ships, 
Or  rings  for  the  weaning  infant's  lips, 
Or  toys  for  yon  princely  boy  who  stands 
Knee-deep  in  the  bloom  of  his  father's  lands, 
And  waits  for  his  idle  thoughts  to  come; 
Or  carve  the  sword-hilt,  or  merry  drum, 
Or  the  flaring  edge  of  a  curious  can, 
Fit  for  the  lips  of  a  bearded  man : 
With  vines  and  grapes  in  a  cunning  wreath, 
Where  the  peering  satyrs  wink  beneath, 
And  catch  around  quaintly  knotted  stems 
At  flying  nymphs  by  their  garment  hems. 
And  carve  you  another  inner  rim ; 
Let  girls  hang  over  the  goblet's  brim 
And  dangle  in  wine  their  white  foot-tips ; 
While  crouched  on  their  palms,  with  pouting  lips, 
6 


t>2  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Long-bearded  Pan  and  his  panting  troop 
In  the  golden  waves  their  faces  stoop. 
0  carve  you  something  of  solid  worth — 
Leave  heaven  to  heaven,  come,  earth  to  earth. 
Carve  that  thy  hearth- stone  may  glimmer  bright, 
And  thy  children  laugh  in  dancing  light." 

Steadily  answered  the  carver's  lips, 
As  he  brushed  from  his  brow  the  ivory  chips ; — 
While  the  presence  grew  with  the  rising  sound, 
Spurning  in  grandeur  the  hollow  ground, 
As  if  the  breath  on  the  carver's  tongue 
Were  fumes  from  some  precious  censer  swung, 
That  lifted  the  spirit's  winged  soul 
To  the  heights  where  crystal  planets  roll 
Their  choral  anthems,  and  heaven's  wide  arch 
Is  thrilled  with  the  music  of  their  march; 
And  the  faithless  shades  fled  backward,  dim 
From  the  wondrous  light  that  lived  in  him. — 
Thus  spake  the  carver — his  words  were  few, 
Simple  and  meek,  but  he  felt  them  true, — 
"I  labor  by  day,  I  labor  by  night, 
The  Master  ordered,  the  work  is  right: 


THE    IVORY    CARVER.  63 

Pray  that  He  strengthen  my  feeble  good; 
For  much  must  be  cifhquered,  much  withstood." 
The  artist  labored,  the  labor  sped, 
But  a  corpse  lay  in  his  bridal  bed. 

Wearily  worked  the  artist  alone, 
As  his  tears  ran  down  the  ivory-bone; 
And  the  presence  lost  its  wonted  glow, 
For  its  trembling  heart  was  beating  low, 
And  the  stealthy  shadows  came  crawling  in 
With  the  silent  tread  of  a  flattered  sin; 
Till  the  spirit  fled  to  the  Christ's  own  face, 
Like  a  hunted  man  to  a  place  of  grace ; 
On  the  crown,  the  death-wrung  eye,  the  tear, 
On  the  placid  triumph,  faint  yet  clear, 
That  trembled  around  the  mouth,  and  last 
On  the  fatal  wound,  its  brightness  passed, 
Shrinking  low  down  in  the  horrid  scar, 
And  flickering  there  like  a  waning  star. 
Slowly  he  labored  with  drooping  head, 
For  the  artist's  heart  from  his  work  had  fled. 
He  moaned,  he  muttered  his  lost  one's  name, 
He  looked  on  the  Christ  with  a  look  of  shame ; 


64  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

He  called,  he  listened,  no  voice  replied; 

He  prayed  her  to  come  again  and  cWde 

The  hateful  work  which  his  hand  began; 

He  promised  ships,  rings,  toys,  drinking-can. 

With  level  stare,  through  the  thickening  shade, 

Hither  and  thither  his  eye-balls  strayed ; 

But  ne'er  turned  upward  where,  just  above, 

A  single  star  with  a  look  of  love — 

Divine,  supernal,  transcending  sense — 

Shone  on  him  a  splendor  so  intense 

That  it  half  replaced  the  spirit's  light, 

And  thwarted  the  leaguering  bands  of  night. 

Albeit  he  did  not  see  the  star, 

Sense  is  not  a  perfect  pass  or  bar 

For  the  mystic  steps  of  love;  his  heart 

Felt  a  dumb  stir  through  its  chillest  part, 

Felt  a  warm  glow  through  its  currents  run, 

And  knew,  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  sun, 

That  the  night  was  past  and  day  was  come. 

Bravely  he  bent  o'er  the  ivory  bone; 

But  dull  and  dusk  as  a  time-stained  stone, 

From  some  mouldering  sculptured  aisle  redeemed, 

The  face  of  the  slighted  figure  seemed ; 


THE    IVORY   CARVER.  65 

Till  with  heart  and  soul  the  artist  cast 
His  mind  on  the  visionary  past, 
When  the  face  put  on  a  purer  hue, 
While  again  the  wondrous  presence  grew  j 
And  the  star's  and  the  spirit's  leagued  light 
Baffled  the  cunning  of  plotting  night. 

"  Father,  why  sit  you  ever  alone, 
Carving  this  Christ  from  the  ivory  bone? 
Unlovely  the  figure,  and  passing  grim 
Writh  cramping  tortures  in  every  limb. 
A  ghastly  sight  is  the  open  wound, 
The  wicked  nails,  and  the  sharp  thorns  bound 
O'er  his  heavy  brow's  crowned  agony  : — 
Fearful  is  Christ  on  the  cursed  tree !" 
"  And  see  you  nothing,"  the  artist  said, 
"But  pain  and  death  in  this  sacred  head  ? — 
No  triumph  in  the  firm  lip,  see  you  ? 
No  gracious  promise  which  struggles  through 
The  half-closed  lids;  or  no  patient  vow 
Sealed  on  the  breadth  of  this  mighty  brow? 
Is  my  purpose  idle,  my  labor  vain?" 
They  answered,  "  We  see  but  death  and  pain." 
6* 


66  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

A  little  word  had  frozen  his  blood; 

All  silent  the  woful  artist  stood, 

Turning  the  figure,  now  here  now  there, 

With  the  stolid  wonder  of  despair. 

Blankly  his  eye-balls  he  swept  around, 

Like  one  who  wakes  from  a  dream  profound, 

And  doubts  the  actual  world  he  sees, 

Yet  knows  his  visions  but  phantasies. 

" Nothing?"  the  artist  murmured  again. 

" Nothing,"  they  answered,  "but  death  and  pain. 

O  father,  come  to  the  sunny  heath, 

Where  the  violets  nod  in  their  own  sweet  breath, 

Where  the  roses,  prodigal  as  fair, 

Squander  their  wealth  on  the  thankless  air, 

And  all  the  glory  of  heaven  and  earth 

Meets  in  the  hour  of  the  lily's  birth ; 

Where  the  wheeling  sky-larks  upward  throng, 

Chasing  to  heaven  their  morning  song, 

Till  its  music  fades  from  the  listening  ear, 

And  only  God's  placid  angels  hear, 

As  they  hush  their  matin  hymn,  and  all 

Serenely  bend  o'er  the  crystal  wall. 


THE   IVORY   CARVER.  67 

Hasten,  dear  father;  there's  nothing  there 
So  dread  as  yon  figure's  dying  stare; 
For  sun  and  dew  have  a  cunning  way 
Of  making  the  dullest  thing  look  gay : 
There's  a  wonder  there  in  the  coarsest  stone, 
Which  you  cannot  solve,  yet  still  must  own. 
Or  if  it  suit  not  your  present  mood, 
Come  with  us  then  to  the  darksome  wood ; 
Where  cataracts  talk  to  hoary  trees 
Of  the  world  in  by-gone  centuries, 
Ere  the  dew  on  Eden's  hills  had  dried, 
Or  its  valleys  lost  their  flowery  pride ; 
When  earth  beneath  them  and  heaven  above, 
Were  lulled  in  the  nursing  arms  of  love, 
And  all  God's  creatures  together  grew — 
A  peace  in  the  very  air  they  drew — 
Until  sin  burst  nature's  golden  zone, 
And  nature  dwindled,  and  sin  has  grown. 
Come,  father,  there's  more  of  joy  and  good 
In  our  merry  heath  and  solemn  wood, 
Than  the  cold,  dead  hands  of  art  can  reach, 
Or  its  man-made  canons  darkly  teach." 


68  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

"  Children,  dear  children,  it  may  not  be : 

This  work  the  Master  hath  set  for  me. 

All  are  not  framed  of  the  self-same  clay; 

And  some  must  labor,  or  none  could  play." 

The  bright  flowers  blossomed,  the  sky-larks  sang, 

Deep  in  the  forest  the  cataracts'  clang 

Went  up,  unheard,  in  the  silent  sun; 

The  childish  ears,  which  their  charms  had  won, 

And  the  tongues  they  woke,  were  there  no  more — 

They  lay  with  the  clay  that  breathed  of  yore. 

Up  sprang  the  artist,  and  glared  around, 
Dashing  the  Christ  to  the  shuddering  ground, 
With  a  cry  whose  piercing  agony 
Made  hell  re-echo  with  welcome  glee, 
And  all  the  trembling  angels  pale 
At  the  terrors  of  that  human  wail. 
"Was  it  for  this,  I  was  singled  out 
From  the  cringing,  slavish,  coward  rout 
That  blacken  foul  earth  ?     Was  it  for  this, 
I  bore  the  low  sneer,  the  open  hiss, 
The  cross,  the  passion,  the  cheerless  toil — 
Which  nothing  fosters,  and  all  things  foil — 


THE    IVORY    CARVER. 

Ouly  that  Thou  shouldst  be  glorified 

In  the  Saviour  who  sitteth  by  Thy  side? 

And  is  this  Thy  servant's  rich  reward? 

Are  these  the  blessings  which  Thou  hast  stored 

For  the  faithful  few? — From  sons  of  men 

Choose  me  for  Thy  chiefest  rebel  then ! 

Thrice  cursed  be  the  murderous,  cheating  thought 

That  led  me  blindly !     The  hand  that  wrought 

This  ivory  fraud,  thrice  cursed  be ; 

For  it  slew  the  hearts  that  lived  for  me  ! 

Thrice  cursed  be  the  sight  of  heaven  and  earth  ! 

Thrice  cursed  be  the  womb  that  gave  me  birth  1 

Thrice  cursed  be  the  blood  on  Calvary  poured  ! 

Cursed,  cursed  be  Thy  hollow  name" —     The  word, 

That  might  have  uttered  unpardoned  sin, 

Died  on  his  shuddering  lips;  and  within, 

Like  a  dead  weight,  on  his  palsied  tongue 

The  impious  thought  of  his  fury  hung. 

Around,  above,  with  one  rapid  stoop, 

The  waiting  shadows  of  evil  swoop; 

And  in  and  out,  through  the  vast  turmoil 

Of  cloudy  currents,  that  twist  and  coil 


70  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  endless  motion,  unnumbered  forms — 

Countless  as  sands  in  the  desert  storms — 

Were  drifted  in  masses  indistinct; 

No  limb  to  a  neighboring  shape  seemed  linked. 

Now  a  woful  head  came  staring  through, 

Then  withered  hands,  where  the  head  withdrew ; 

Now  a  brow  with  wrathful  furrows  knit, 

Then  the  trailing  hair  of  a  girl  would  flit, 

Like  a  meteor,  from  the  dusky  throng 

That  whirled  with  the  cloudy  tide  along. 

One,  more  audacious  than  all  the  rest, 

Who  wore  his  crimes,  like  a  haughty  crest 

Nodding  its  plumes  o'er  a  conqueror  proud, 

Stepped  boldly  forth  from  the  writhing  cloud, 

Stepped  boldly  forth  on  the  solid  land, 

And  clutched  the  Christ  with  his  sinful  hand. 

Instant  the  shadows  were  rent  in  twain, 

Dashed  here  and  there  o'er  the  frighted  plain, 

And  the  star  burst  blazing  from  above; 

Stern  vengeance  mixed  with  its  holy  love, 

As  full  on  the  brow  of  the  child  of  hell, 

With  the  crash  of  a  flaming  battle-shell, 


THE    IVORY   CARVER.  71 

The  beams  of  the  angry  planet  fell. 
Right  boldly  the  startled  demon  gazed, 
And  backward,  with  dauntless  front  upraised — 
Upon  whose  terrific  waste  still  gloomed 
Hate  unsubdued  and  wrath  unconsumed — 
He  faced  the  star-beams,  and  slowly  strode 
Into  the  depths  of  his  drear  abode. 

Motionless  sat  the  artist  alone, 

Fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ivory-bone, 

Yet  seeing  nothing.     The  vengeful  star, 

As  the  routed  shadows  fled  afar, 

Softened  its  lustre,  and  gently  glanced 

On  his  torpid  breast.     As  one  entranced 

Stirs  with  dumb  life,  in  the  solid  gloom 

Of  some  unhealthy,  damp-dripping  tomb; 

Feels  his  coffin-lid  with  groping  hands, 

Or  clutches  the  grave-clothes'  tightened  bands, 

And  then  with  a  murmur  turns  him  o'er, 

Drowsily  dozing  to  death  once  more  : 

So  seemed  the  artist.     The  star- beams  brought 

A  dim  sensation,  a  vague  half  thought, 


72  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

That  glimmered  awhile  around  his  brain, 
Then  faded,  and  all  was  dark  again. 
But  still  the  warm,  loving  splendor  shone; 
And  close  to  the  side  of  the  greater  one 
Two  stars,  in  their  new-born  freshness,  came 
Down  from  the  throne  of  mercy,  a-flame 
With  all  its  brightness.     A  silvery  trail 
Died  out  behind  them  in  sparkles  pale, 
As  they  wheeled  within  the  lustrous  sphere 
Of  the  elder  star,  and  shot  their  clear 
Commingled  rays  o'er  the  abject  clay, 
That  prone,  unmoving  and  silent  lay, 
With  a  dull,  cold  load  of  stupid  pain 
Pressed  on  his  heart  and  his  senseless  brain. 
Like  the  springtide  sun,  that  sets  a-glow 
The  tufted  meadows  with  melting  snow, 
And  turns  by  degrees  the  icy  hills 
To  balmy  vapors  and  fruitful  rills  : 
So  shone  the  stars  on  the  torpid  man ; 
Until,  as  the  first  hard  tear-drop  ran, 
A  thought  through  his  gloomy  bosom  stole. 
At  once,  with  a  shock  of  pain,  the  whole 


THE   IVORY   CARVER.  73 

Broad  human  nature  arose  amazed, 

With  all  its  guilt  on  its  brow  upraised. 

Ah  me  !  'twas  a  mournful  sight,  to  see 

The  three  stars  shining,  so  peacefully, 

On  the  raging  breast  of  him  who  poured 

His  puny  wrath  at  our  gracious  Lord. 

Awhile,  with  stubborn  and  willful  might, 

The  artist  strove  to  drive  from  his  sight 

The  kindly  look  of  the  starry  trine; 

Yet  turn  as  he  might,  some  power  divine 

Would  soften  his  will — he  knew  not  why — 

And  draw  to  the  light  his  troubled  eye. 

Long,  long  he  looked ;  till  his  heavy  grief 

Of  heart  gushed  forth,  and  a  full  relief 

Of  balmy  tear-drops  fell,  round  on  round, 

Like  the  blood  which  marks  yet  heals  a  wound. 

He  staggered,  he  bowed  his  stubborn  knee, 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  shining  three  j 

And  the  tears  so  magnified  his  gaze, 

That  the  face  of  heaven  seemed  all  ablaze 

With  light  and  mercy.     He  knew  the  stars 

That  looked  through  his  earthly  dungeon-bars. — 


74  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

"I  see/'  he  shouted,  "ye  live,  ye  live  : 
Death  is  a  phantom  !     0  God,  forgive !" 

Steadily  worked  the  artist  alone, 

Carving  the  Christ  from  the  ivory  bone. 

Again  the  bright  presence  shone  around 

With  a  light  more  dazzling,  more  profound. 

Through  day,  through  night,  through  fair,  through  foul, 

The  artist  wrought  with  a  single  soul ; 

And  when  hand  would  tire,  or  eye  grow  dim, 

He  looked  at  the  stars  that  looked  at  him, 

Until  power  and  vision  both  were  given, 

And  he  carved  the  Christ  by  light  from  heaven. 

Under  each  cruel  thorn-point  he  hid 

A  world  of  grief,  and  each  drooping  lid 

Was  closed  round  its  mortal  tears  of  pain ; 

But  the  nostrils  curved  in  proud  disdain 

Of  death  and  his  feeble  tyranny ; 

And  the  mouth  was  calm  with  victory. 

High  over  all,  the  majestic  brow 

Looked  down  on  the  storm  which  raged  below, 

Big  with  the  power  and  the  god-like  will 

That  said  to  the  sinking  heart— "Be  still !" 


THE    IVORY   CARVER.  75 

And  it  was  still.     For  who  once  had  looked 
On  that  mighty  brow,  saw  not  the  crooked 
And  veindd  fingers  that  clutched  the  nails, 
Nor  the  fitful  spasm  that  comes  and  fails 
In  the  dropping  legs,  nor  the  wide  wound ; 
Oh  no !  the  thorn-wreath  seemed  twisted  round 
A  victor's  head,  like  a  diadem, 
And  each  thorn-point  bore  a  royal  gem. 

Silently  sat  the  artist  alone ; 

For  the  Christ  was  carved  from  the  ivory  bone. 

The  presence  bowed  with  a  holy  awe, 

And  paled  in  the  light  of  the  thing  it  saw : 

But  the  three  stars  sang  a  single  word, 

Faint  and  subdued,  like  a  widowed  bird 

That  sings  to  her  own  sad  heart  alone, 

And  knows  that  no  creature  hears  her  moan. 

The  artist  echoed  their  timid  psalm, 

Bowing  to  earth,  with  palm  clasped  in  palm; 

And,  "Pardon,  pardon,  pardon/'  he  prayed, 

As  the  Christ  upon  his  heart  he  laid. 

"  Pardon,  0  pardon  I"  the  three  stars  sang : 

" Pardon,  0  pardon!"     All  heaven  rang 


7G  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

With  dulcet  sounds,  as  the  angel  throng 

Joined  in  the  depths  of  the  choral  song, 

With  harp,  and  viol,  and  timbrel  sweet. 

"  Pardon,  0  pardon  !"  the  saints  repeat, 

With  shrouded  faces  and  solemn  close, 

As  hearts  remembering  their  human  woes. 

And  martyrs,  who  bore  their  fiery  scars 

Like  trophies  gathered  in  long-past  wars, 

Cried,  "Pardon,  pardon  !"     And  heaven's  wide  hills, 

And  fruitful  valleys,  and  golden  rills, 

And  long,  long  levels  of  sunny  sky 

Were  vibrant  with  living  sympathy; 

And  folded  and  gathered  into  one 

The  waves  of  the  multitudinous  tone, 

Until,  like  a  winged  thing  that  glows 

With  the  first  joy  of  its  wings,  arose 

In  pride  of  triumph  the  mighty  sound, 

And  circled  the  mercy-scat  around  • 

Till  the  glory  grew,  the  sign  was  given, 

And  another  joy  was  born  in  heaven. 


THE   IVORY   CARVER.  77 


EPILOGUE. 

THREE  priests  from  Saint  Peter's  church  have  come, 

To  carry  an  ivory  Saviour  home. 

Long  years  of  unceasing  strategies — 

New  bribes,  new  threats,  and  new  treacheries — 

It  cost  our  holy  father ;  until 

The  prior  who  held  it  at  his  will — 

"  Cursed  be  his  name  !"  say  the  brotherhood 

Of  the  house  wherein  the  treasure  stood — 

Lost  all  their  wealth  on  a  single  cast, 

And  the  Pope  secured  the  prize  at  last. 

How  it  was  managed,  heaven  only  knows ; 

But  by  one  thing's  fall  another  grows: 

And  though  the  prior  was  cursed,  mayhap, 

In  a  year  or  two  a  cardinal's  cap 

Covered  more  sins  than  that  little  slip, 

And  bore  more  curses,  from  every  lip, 

With  as  proud  a  grace  to  its  lord's  behoof 

As  if  the  cloth  were  of  Milan  proof. 


78  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Howbeit,  I  give  the  slander  o'er. 

The  three  priests  stand  by  the  convent  door. 

And  the  monks,  with  groans  of  wrath,  essay 

To  bring  the  Christ  to  the  light  of  day. 

Three  times  they  had  nearly  dropped  their  load  :— 

All  chance,  perhaps;  but  the  shoulders  broad 

Of  stout  Father  John  came  just  in  need — 

Though  his  oaths  were  a  little  late  indeed. 

"Is  this  a  matter,"  said  burly  John — 

His  breath  and  his  temper  almost  gone — 

"To  bruise  one's  shoulder  about?     ;0ds  blood  ! 

Bring  the  true  image;  or,  by  the  rood  ! 

You  shall  feel  the  vengeance  of  the  Pope  !" 

"  Why,  brothers,  you  did  not  think,  I  hope," 

Said  Father  Francis — his  open  eyes 

Bewildered  with  sorrowful  surprise — 

"  To  cheat  an  old  connoisseur  like  me, 

With  such  a  bold  dash  of  villainy. 

Full  fifty  better  Christs  I  have  seen 

Rotting  away  in  the  Madaline. 

Here's  cause  for  penance !  here's  much  to  tell ! — 

Is  this  your  ivory  miracle?" 


THE   IVORY   CARVER.  79 

"Hush!"  whispered  young  Anselm's  saintly  lips. 

"But  see  the  modeling  about  the  hips/' 

Broke  in  sour  Francis.     "And  only  see/' 

Blustered  John  boldly,  "  the  holy  tree  ! — 

Of  English  oak  !  while  the  chips  we  own 

Are  made  from  cedar  of  Lebanon. 

Either  the  Church  or  the  artist  lies : — 

Who  doubts  it  ?"     Within  his  reddening  eyes 

There  burnt  a  general  Auto-dc-fej 

For  whomever  might  his  words  gainsay. 

Anselm  waved  slowly  his  small,  white  hand, 

And  speech  was  hushed,  as  the  little  band 

Of  priests  and  friars  drew  softly  round, 

Like  men  who  tread  upon  holy  ground ; 

For  Anselm  was  half  a  saint  at  Rome : 

The  general  country  for  leagues  would  come 

To  hear  his  preaching.     His  sermon  o'er, 

The  alms-box  groaned  with  its  golden  store ; 

And  alone  each  thoughtful  soul  would  go, 

With  his  happy  features  all  aglow  j 

As  if  bounteous  heaven's  transfiguring  grace 

Were  sown  broad  cast  o'er  each  shining  face, 


80  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

And  each  were  revolving  in  his  head 
The  words  which  a  parting  angel  said : 
So  that  young  Ansel m  came  nigh  to  be 
A  saint  ere  he  put  off  mortality. 
Why  he  was  not  a  bishop,  at  least, 
Or  something  more  than  a  common  priest, 
Is  a  shrewd  question  we'll  not  press  home — 
They  don't  make  bishops  of  saints  at  Rome. 
Sometimes  a  bishop  becomes  a  saint ; 
But  that  is  after  the  fleshy  taint 
Has  well  worn  off  in  the  grave's  decay : 
And  anything  can  be  made  from  clay; 
Saints,  poets,  heroes — the  thing's  all  one — 
A  scratching  of  pens,  and  the  work  is  done. 

Slowly  round  Anselm  the  listeners  drew, 
Fixing  their  eyes  on  his  eyes  of  blue. 
He  mused,  but  spoke  not.     His  spirit  now 
Was  lost  in  the  wonder  of  the  brow; 
Or  chained  to  the  grand  victorious  scorn 
About  the  nostril ;  or  downward  borne 
In  the  weight  of  agony  and  grief 
That  loaded  the  tear-drops;  or  relief, 


THE    IVORY   CARVER.  81 

Perchance,  he  sought  in  the  steady  smile 
Round  the  parted  lips :     But  all  the  while 
No  word  he  spoke,  though  his  constant  eye 
Blazed  with  the  splendor  of  prophecy ; 
As  full  on  the  ivory  Christ  he  bent 
A  look  that  o'ergathered  all  it  sent — 
A  fruitful  commerce  of  thoughts  sublime 
That  burst  earth's  limits,  and  mocked  at  time. 
So  long  he  looked,  and  such  meaning  grew 
Twixt  the  ivory  and  the  eyes  of  blue, 
That  the  priests  who  saw  do  stoutly  tell 
How  the  figure  moved.     "A  miracle!" 
Shouted  Father  John,  with  hanging  jaw; — 
"  'Ods  blood !  and  the  first  I  ever  saw." 
11 A  miracle  \"     One  clamorous  cry 
Went  up  through  the  low,  damp  evening  sky, 
From  a  score  of  gaping  cowls,  that  hid 
More  fear  than  grace  beneath  every  lid  ; 
And  the  caverned  hills,  around  the  plain, 
Swelled  with  it,  then  cast  it  back  again — 
A  hollow  echo,  a  jeering  shout, 
Which  silenced  the  lips  that  gave  it  out. 


82  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Then  gently  turned  Anselm  towards  the  priest, 
His  great  soul  filled  with  a  solemn  feast 
Of  thoughtful  love ;  in  the  blest  repose 
Which  follows  the  spirit's  higher  throes, 
Aloud  to  the  silent  throng  he  spoke, 
Kindling  as  thought  upon  thought  awoke. 

"0  ye,  who  in  midnight  caverns  dwell, 
While  the  ever-during  miracle 
Of  changing  seasons  goes  through  its  round 
A  stone-cast  beyond  your  narrow  bound; — 
Even  though  you  will  not  or  cannot  see 
The  marvel  born  in  the  growing  tree, 
The  opening  flower,  or  the  gracious  sun 
That  gives  equal  alms  to  every  one : 
Shall  ye  be  the  first  to  raise  a  cry 
Of  "  miracle  !"  if  some  passer  by 
Venture  within  your  hideous  cell, 
Where  the  gleam  of  twilight  never  fell, 
With  a  flaring  torch  of  smoky  pine  ? — 
Shall  ye  call  the  light  a  thing  divine, 
Because  a  mere  sudden,  curious  chance 
Has  worked  on  your  own  dull  ignorance, 


THE    IVORY   CAKVEB.  83 

And  given  you  vision,  and  taught  you  lore 
That  lay  from  the  first  at  your  very  door  ? 
Must  signs  and  wonders  forever  be 
Guides  on  the  road  to  eternity  ? 
Unhood  yourselves,  and  look  round  you,  then, 
On  earth,  air,  ocean,  your  fellow  men. 
Know  that  the  miracle  does  not  lie 
In  the  roar  of  jarring  prodigy; 
But  lapped  in  the  everlasting  law, 
Whose  faithful  issue  last  spring  ye  saw, 
When  chill  earth  warmed  in  the  vernal  ray, 
The  snow  was  melted,  the  ice  gave  way, 
When  the  grass  rose  trembling  from  the  clod, 
And  pointed  its  narrow  leaf  to  God. 
Who,  when  this  ivory  was  first  revealed, 
Saw  any  marvel,  plain  or  concealed, 
In  the  glorious  sculpture?     Nay,  ye  turned 
Your  senseless  shoulders,  and  boldly  spurned 
The  heavenly  thing;  till  your  failing  sight — 
Caught  by  a  trick  of  the  shifting  light — 
Fancied  some  movement,  or  here,  or  there — 
A  crooking  finger,  a  waving  hair — 


84  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

When  sudden  awe  on  your  weakness  fell, 
And  all  cried  as  one — "  A  miracle  I" 

0  shallow  skeptics !     0  seekers  blind  ! 
The  marvel  is  not  the  one  ye  find; 

It  lies  not  in  moving  limb  or  head. 

Though  the  frame  had  writhed,  the  thorn-wounds  bled, 

The  sweet  mouth  spoken,  tears  dimmed  the  eyes — 

No,  not  in  these  the  true  mystery  lies ; 

But  in  the  grand  irradiate  whole, 

Warm  with  its  fresh  and  immortal  soul, 

Sealed  with  the  seal  of  eternal  youth — 

God's  presence  revealed  in  simple  truth ! 

1  tell  you,  here  standing,  this  shall  preach 

When  Pope,  priests,  church,  and  the  creed  ye  teach 
Have  passed,  like  the  heathen  dreams,  away, 
And  flowers  take  root  in  your  haughty  clay. 
When  a  stranger,  on  the  Appian  road, 
May  ask  where  Saint  Peter's  ruins  stood; 
And  a  simple  hind,  who  tills  the  soil 
O'er  Rome's  foundations,  may  pause  from  toil, 
And  say  he  knows  not.     Even  then  shall  stand 
In  the  musing  stranger's  distant  land, 


THE    IVORY    CARVER.  85 

Sculptured  from  bases  to  pediments 
With  all  that  studious  art  invents, 
A  temple  of  marble  veined  with  gold, 
Built  only  this  precious  Christ  to  hold. 
Air-spanning  arches  and  columns  broad, 
All  stooping  beneath  their  splendid  load — 
Wide-vaulted  chambers  whose  frescoes  rare 
People  the  solemn  religious  air 
With  heavenly  synods — and  heavenly  notes, 
Blown  out  from  the  organ's  golden  throats, 
Shall  rise,  like  a  general  voice,  to  te'll 
Man's  joy  in  yon  ivory  miracle. 
And  daily  within  that  holy  fane 
Shall  come  a  sin-stricken  pilgrim  train, 
From  every  country  beneath  the  sun, 
To  gaze  on  this  image ;  and  each  one 
Shall  loosen  his  burden  of  despair, 
And  stride  again  to  the  blessed  air 
With  new  power  to  do,  new  strength  to  bear. 
For  here,  in  this  sacred  face,  is  met 
All  that  mortal  ever  suffered  yet : 
All  human  weakness,  all  shame,  all  fear, 
Hang  in  the  woe  of  yon  trembling  tear; 
8 


86  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

And  all  the  will,  the  valor,  the  power, 
That  grapple  and  hold  the  adverse  hour, 
Are  throned  like  kings  on  yon  fearless  brow ; 
And  the  vassal  flesh  shall  cower  and  bow, 
As  nature  bows  unto  nature's  laws  !" — 

Here  Anselm's  speech  made  a  sudden  pause. 

Lost  in  the  grand  passion  at  his  heart, 

"With  flashing  eyes,  and  lips  wide  apart — 

As  one  whose  full  subject  overbore, 

In  torrents,  the  power  to  utter  more — 

He  stood  all  trembling.     Like  heavy  clouds 

Moved  by  one  wind,  the  friars  in  crowds 

Gloomily  under  their  portal  swam, 

In  half-voice  chaunting  a  vesper  psalm ; 

And  the  priests  were  standing  there  alone 

With  night,  the  Christ,  and  four  stars  that  shone- 

Brighter  and  brighter  as  daylight  fled — 

Strangely  together,  just  overhead. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  EARTH. 


CHORUS    OF   PLANETS. 

HARK  to  our  voices,  0  mother  of  Nations ! 
Why  art  thou  dim  when  thy  sisters  are  radiant? 
Why  veil'st  thy  face  in  a  mantle  of  vapor, 
Gliding  obscure  through  the  depths  of  the  night  ? 
Wake  from  thy  lethargy.     Hear'st  thou  our  music, 
Harmonious,  that  reaches  the  confines  of  space  ? 
Join  in  our  chorus,  join  in  our  jubilee, 
Make  the  day  pine  with  thy  far-piercing  melody — 
Pine  that  his  kingdom  of  blue  sky  and  sunshine 
Never  re- echoes  such  marvelous  tones. 
No,  thou  art  silent,  0  mystical  sister, 


88  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Silent  and  proud  that  thou  bear'st  on  thy  bosom 
The  wonderful  freight  of  the  God-lighted  soul. — 
We  hear  thee,  we  hear  thee,  beneath  thy  thick  mantle, 
The  war  of  the  winds  through  thy  leaf-laden  forests, 
And  round  aisles  of  thy  pillared  and  hill-piercing 
Caverns  sonorous;  hear  the  dread  avalanche 
Torn  from  its  quivering  mountainous  summit, 
Ribbe'd  with  massy  rocks,  crested  with  pine  trees, 
Thundering  enormous  upon  thy  fair  valleys; 
Hear  the  dull  roar  of  thy  mist-spouting  cataracts; 
Hear  the  faint  plash  of  thy  salt  seething  billows, 
Lifting  their  heads  multitudinous,  or  shoreward 
Climbing  the  cliffs  that  o'erhang  them  with  trembling, 
And  tossing  their  spray  in  exultant  defiance 
Over  the  weed-bearded  guardians  of  ocean. 
Sister,  we  listen;  thy  strains  are  enlinking, 
Melodiously  blending  to  ravishing  harmony ; 
Clouds  are  departing,  we  see  thee,  we  yearn  to  thee, 
Noblest  of  planets,  creation's  full  glory ! 
Bending  we  hearken,  thou  mother  of  nations, 
Hark  to  the  sky-rending  voice  of  humanity. 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    EARTH.  89 


SONG  OF  THE  EARTH. 

0  vex  me  not,  ye  ever-burning  planets; 
Nor  sister  call  me,  ye  who  me  afflict. 

1  am  unlike  ye ;  ye  may  reveling  sing, 
Careless  and  joyful,  roaming  sun-lit  ether, 
Urged  with  but  one  emotion,  chaunting  still 
Through  lapsing  time  the  purpose  of  your  birth, 
Each  with  a  several  passion ;  but  to  me 

Are  mixed  emotions,  vast  extremes  of  feeling — 
Now  verdant  in  the  fruitful  smile  of  heaven, 
Now  waste  and  blackened  in  the  scowl  of  hell. 
Ye  know  me  not,  nor  can  ye  sympathize 
With  one  like  me,  for  wisdom  is  not  yours. 
Ye  sing  for  joy;  but  wisdom  slowly  comes 
From  the  close  whispers  of  o'erburdencd  pain. 
I  am  alone  in  all  the  universe ! 
To  me  is  pain;  I  can  distinguish  sin ; 
But  ye  with  constant  though  unweeting  glance 
Rain  good  or  ill,  and  smile  alike  at  both, 
8* 


90  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Nor  understand  the  mystery  of  your  natures. 

To  me  is  wisdom — wisdom  bought  with  woe, 

Ages  on  ages  passed,  when  first  I  strayed, 

With  haughty  scorn  and  self-reliant  pride, 

From  purity  and  God.     For  once  like  you 

God  spoke  me  face  to  face,  me  soulless  led 

From  joy  to  joy;  yet  lie  was  mystical — 

Too  obvious  for  thought — I  knew  Him  not : 

But  now,  through  sin,  I  understand  like  Him 

The  heart  of  things,  the  steep  descents  of  guilt, 

And  the  high  pinnacles  of  heaven-lit  virtue. 

Bend  down,  ye  stars,  bend  from  your  silver  thrones, 

Ye  joyful  wanderers  of  ether  bright; 

For  I,  soul- bearer  of  the  universe, 

Would  teach  your  ignorance  with  the  lips  of  song ! 

0  MERCURY,  hot  planet,  burying  deep 
Thy  forehead  in  the  sunlight,  list  to  me ! 

1  groan  beneath  thy  influence.     Thou  dost  urge 
The  myriad  hands  of  labor,  and  with  toil 
Post  mar  my  features;  day  by  day  dost  work 
Thy  steady  changes  on  my  ancient  face, 

Till  all  the  host  of  heaven  blank  wonder  look, 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   EARTH.  91 

Nor  know  the  fresh,  primeval  moulded  form 

That  rose  from  chaos,  like  the  Aphrodite, 

Smiling  through  dews  upon  the  first  morn's  sun. 

The  leaf-crowned  mountain's  brows  thou  hurlest  down 

Into  the  dusty  valley,  and  dost  still 

The  free  wild  singing  of  the  cleaving  streams 

To  murmurs  dying  lazily  within 

The  knotted  roots  of  pool-engendered  lilies, 

That  sluggish  nod  above  the  slimy  dams. 

All  day  the  axe  I  hear  rending  through  trunks, 

Moss-grown  and  reverend,  of  clustered  oaks; 

All  day  the  circling  scythe  sweeps  off 

The  ruddy-bloom  of  vain-aspiring  fields, 

Clipping  to  stubbles  grim  the  vernal  flowers. 

Thou  portionest  my  meadows,  and  dost  make 

Each  fruitful  slope  a  spot  for  sweaty  toil. 

Thou  tearest  up  my  bosom,  far  within 

My  golden  veins  the  grimed  miner's  pick 

Startles  the  babbling  echoes.     Ancient  rocks, 

My  hardy  bones,  are  rent  with  nitrous  fire, 

To  rear  the  marts,  to  bridge  the  leaping  streams, 

Or  to  usurp  the  ocean's  olden  right, 

That  selfish  trade  may  dry-shod  walk  to  power. 


92  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

The  very  ocean,  grim,  implacable, 

Thou  loadcst  with  the  white-winged  fleets  of  commerce, 

Crossing,  like  wheeling  birds,  each  other's  tracks; 

Until  the  burdened  giant,  restless  grown, 

Bounds  from  his  sleep,  and  in  the  stooping  clouds 

Nods  his  white  head,  while  splintered  navies  melt 

To  scattered  fragments  in  his  sullen  froth. 

Malignant  star,  I  feel  thy  wicked  power ; 

My  children's  busy  thoughts  are  full  of  thee : 

Thou'st  chilled  the  loving  spirit  in  their  hearts, 

And  on  their  lips  hast  placed  the  selfish  finger — 

They  dare  not  know  each  other.     All  that  is, 

All  that  God  blessed  my  teeming  bosom  with, 

Is  priced  and  bartered ;  ay,  the  very  worth 

Of  man  himself  is  weighed  with  senseless  gold — 

Therefore  I  hate  thee,  bright- browed  wanderer ! 

Daughter  of  the  sober  twilight, 
Lustrous  planet,  ever  hanging 
In  the  mottled  mists  that  welcome 
Coming  morning,  or  at  evening 
Peeping  through  the  ruddy  banners 
Of  the  clouds  that  wave  a  parting, 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    EARTH.  93 

From  their  high  aerial  summits, 
To  the  blazing  god  of  day — 
'Tis  for  thee  I  raise  my  pasan, 
Steady-beaming  VENUS,  kindler, 
In  the  stubborn  hearts  of  mortals, 
Of  the  sole  surviving  passion 
That  enlinks  a  lost  existence 
With  the  dull  and  ruthless  present. 
Far  adown  the  brightening  future, 
Prophetess,  I  see  thee  glancing — 
See  thee  still  amid  the  twilight 
Of  the  ages  rolling  onward, 
Promising  to  heart-sick  mortals 
Triumph  of  thy  gracious  kingdom ; 
When  the  hand  of  power  shall  weaken, 
And  the  wronger  right  the  wronged, 
And  the  pure,  primeval  Eden 
Shall  again  o'erspread  with  blossoms 
Sunny  hill  and  shady  valley. 
'Tis  to  thee  my  piny  mountains 
Wave  aloft  their  rustling  branches, 
'Tis  to  thee  my  opening  flowrcts 
Send  on  high  their  luscious  odors, 


94  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

'Tis  to  thee  my  leaping  fountains 
Prattle  through  their  misty  breathings, 
And  the  bass  of  solemn  ocean 
Chimes  accordant  in  the  chorus. 
Every  fireside  is  thy  altar 
Streaming  up  its  holy  incense ; 
Every  mated  pair  of  mortals, 
Happily  linked,  are  priest  and  priestess, 
Pouring  to  thee  full  libations 
From  their  over-brimming  spirits. 
Clash  the  loud  resounding  cymbals, 
Light  the  rosy  torch  of  Hymen, 
Bands  of  white-robed  youths  and  maidens 
Whirl  aloft  the  votive  myrtle  ! 
liaise  the  choral  hymn  to  VENUS— 
Young-eyed  VENUS,  ever  youthful, 
Ever  on  true  hearts  bestowing 
Pleasures  new  that  never  pall ! 
Brightest  link  'tween  man  and  heaven, 
Soul  of  virtue,  life  of  goodness, 
Cheering  light  in  pain  and  sorrow, 
Pole-star  to  the  struggling  voyager 
Wrecked  on  life's  relentless  billows, 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    EARTH.  95 

Fair  reward  of  trampled  sainthood, 
Beaming  from  the  throne  Eternal 
Lonely  hope  to  sinful  mankind — 
Still  among  the  mists  of  morning, 
Still  among  the  clouds  of  evening, 
While  the  years  drive  ever  onward, 
Hang  thy  crescent  lamp  of  promise, 
VENUS,  blazing  star  of  Love ! 

0  MARS,  wide  heaven  is  shuddering  at  the  stride, 
Of  thy  mailed  foot,  most  terrible  of  planets ! 

1  see  thee  struggling  with  thy  brazen  front 
To  look  a  glory  from  amid  the  crust 

Of  guilty  blood  that  dims  thy  haughty  face; 
The  curse  of  crime  is  on  thee.     Look,  behold ! 

See  where  thy  frenzied  votaries  march, 
Hark  to  the  brazen  blare  of  the  bugle, 
Hark  to  the  rattling  clatter  of  the  drums, 
The  measured  tread  of  the  steel-clad  footmen. 
Hark  to  the  laboring  horses'  breath, 
Painfully  tugging  the  harnessed  cannon ; 
The  shrill,  sharp  clink  of  the  warriors'  swords, 


96  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

As  their  chargers  bound  when  the  trumpets  sound 
Their  alarums  through  the  echoing  mountains. 
See  the  flashing  of  pennons  and  scarfs, 
Shaming  the  gorgeous  blazon  of  evening, 
Rising  and  falling  'mid  snowy  plumes 
That  dance  like  foam  on  the  crested  billows. 
Bright  is  the  glitter  of  burnished  steel, 
Stirring  the  clamor  of  martial  music, 
The  clank  of  arms  has  a  witchery 
That  wakes  the  blood  in  a  youthful  bosom. 
And  who  could  tell  from  this  pleasant  show, 
That  flaunts  in  the  sun  like  a  May-day  festal, 
For  what  horrid  rites  are  the  silken  flags, 
For  what  horrid  use  are  the  gleaming  sabres, 
What  change  shall  mar,  when  the  battles  join, 
This  marshaled  pageant  of  shallow  glory; 
For  then  the  gilded  flags  shall  be  rent, 
The  sabres  rust  with  the  blood  of  foemen, 
And  the  courteous  knight  shall  howl  like  a  wolf, 
When  he  scents  the  gory  steam  of  battle. 

The  orphan's  curse  is  on  thee,  and  the  tears 
Of  widowed  matrons  plead  a  fearful  cause ; 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    EARTH.  97 

Each  thing  my  bosom  bears,  which  thou  has  touched, 
Is  loud  against  thee.     Flowers  and  trampled  grass, 
And  the  long  line  of  waste  and  barren  fields, 
Erewhile  o'erflowing  with  a  sea  of  sweets, 
Look  up  all  helpless  to  the  pitying  heavens, 
Showing  thy  bloody  footprints  in  their  wounds, 
And  shrieking  through  their  gaunt  and  leafless  trees, 
That  stand  with  imprecating  arms  outspread, 
They  fiercely  curse  thee  with  their  desolation. 
Each  cheerless  hearth-stone  in  the  home  of  man, 
Where  ruin  grins,  and  rubs  his  bony  palms, 
Demands  its  lost  possessor.     Thou  hast  hurled 
Man's  placid  reason  from  its  rightful  throne, 
And  in  its  place  reared  savage  force,  to  clip 
Debate  and  doubt  with  murder.     Therefore,  MARS, 
I  sicken  in  thy  angry  glance,  and  loath 
The  dull  red  glitter  of  thy  bloody  spear. 

I  know  thy  look,  majestic  JUPITER; 
I  see  thee  moving  through  the  stars  of  heaven 
Girt  with  thy  train  of  ministering  satellites. 
Proud  planet,  I  confess  thy  influence : 
My  heart  grows  big  with  gazing  in  thy  face; 
9 


98  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

Unwonted  power  pervades  my  eager  frame; 

My  bulk  aspiring  towers  above  itself, 

And  restless  pants  to  rush  on  acts  sublime, 

At  which  the  wondering  stars  might  stand  agaze, 

And  the  whole  universe  from  end  to  end, 

Conscious  of  me,  should  tremble  to  its  core. 

Spirit  heroical,  imperious  passion, 

That  sharply  sets  the  pliant  face  of  youth, 

That  blinds  the  shrinking  eyes  of  pallid  fear, 

And  plants  the  lion's  heart  in  modest  breasts — 

I  know  that  thou  hast  led,  with  regal  port, 

The  potent  spirits  of  humanity 

Before  the  van  of  niggard  time,  and  borne, 

With  strides  gigantic,  man's  advancing  race 

From  power  to  power;  till,  like  a  host  of  gods, 

They  mock  my  elements,  and  drag  the  secrets 

Of  my  mysterious  forces  up  to  light, 

Giving  them  bounds  determinate  and  strait, 

And  of  their  natures,  multiform  and  huge, 

Talking  to  children  in  familiar  way. 

The  hero's  sword,  the  poet's  golden  string, 

The  tome-illuming  taper  of  the  sage 

Flash  by  thy  influence;  from  thee  alone, 


THE    SONG    OF   THE   EARTH.  99 

Ambitious  planet,  comes  the  marvelous  power 
That  in  a  cherub's  glowing  form  can  veil 
A  heart  as  cold  as  Iceland,  and  exalt 
To  deity  the  demon  selfishness. 

0  planet,  mingle  with  thy  chilling  rays, 
That  stream  inspiring  to  the  hero's  soul, 
One  beam  of  love  for  vast  humanity, 
And  thou  art  godlike.     Must  it  ever  be, 
That  brightest  flowers  of  action  and  idea 
Spring  from  the  same  dark  soil  of  selfish  lust  ? 
Must  man  receive  the  calculated  gifts 

Of  shrewd  ambition's  self-exalting  hand, 

And  blindly  glorify  an  act  at  which 

The  host  of  heaven  grow  red  with  thoughtful  shame  ? 

Shall  knowledge  hasten  with  her  sunny  face, 

And  weeping  virtue  lag  upon  the  path? 

Shall  man  exultant  boast  advance  of  power, 

Nor  see  arise,  at  every  onward  stride, 

New  forms  of  sin  to  shadow  every  truth? 

Roll  on,  roll  on,  in  self-supported  pride, 

Prodigious  influence  of  the  hero's  soul; 

1  feel  thy  strength,  and  tremble  in  thy  glare ! 


100  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

0  many-ringed  SATURN,  turn  away 

The  chilling  terrors  of  thy  baleful  glance  ! 
Thy  gloomy  look  is  piercing  to  my  heart — 

1  wither  in  thy  power  !     My  springs  dry  up, 
And  shrink  in  horror  to  their  rocky  beds ; 
The  brooks  that  whispered  to  the  lily-bells 
All  day  the  glory  of  their  mountain  homes, 
And  kissed  the  dimples  of  the  wanton  rose, 
At  the  deed  blushing  to  their  pebbly  strands, 
Cease  their  sweet  merriment,  and  glide  afraid 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  twisted  sedge. 
The  opening  bud  shrinks  back  upon  its  shell, 
As  if  the  north  had  puffed  his  frozen  breath 
Full  in  its  face.     The  billowing  grain  and  grass 
Rippling  with  windy  furrows  stand  becalmed ; 
Nor  through  their  roots,  nor  in  their  tiny  veins 
Bestirs  the  fruitful  sap.     The  very  trees, 
Broad,  hardy  sons  of  crags  and  sterile  plains, 
That  roared  defiance  to  the  winter's  shout, 
And  battled  sternly  through  his  cutting  sleet, 
Droop  in  their  myriad  leaves :  while  nightly  birds, 
That  piped  their  shrilling  treble  to  the  moon, 
Hang  silent  from  the  boughs,  and  peer  around 


THE  SONG  OP  THE  EAKT1I.        101 

Awed  by  mysterious  sympathy.     From  thee, 
From  thee,  dull  planet  comes  this  lethargy 
That  numbs  in  'mid  career  meek  nature's  power, 
And  stills  the  prattle  of  her  plumed  train. 
O  icy  SATURN,  proud  in  ignorance, 
Father  of  sloth,  dark  deadening  influence, 
That  dims  the  eye  to  all  that's  beautiful, 
And  twists  the  haughty  lip  with  killing  scorn 
For  love  and  holiness — from  thee  alone 
Springs  the  cold,  crushing  power  that  presses  down 
The  infinite  in  man. — From  thee,  dull  star, 
The  cautious  fear  that  checks  the  glowing  heart, 
With  sympathetic  love,  world-wide,  o'erfreighted, 
And  sends  it  panting  back  upon  itself, 
To  murmur  in  its  narrow  hermitage. 
The  boldest  hero  staggers  in  thy  frown, 
And  drops  his  half- formed  projects  all  aghast; 
The  poet  shrinks  before  thy  phantom  glare, 
Ere  the  first  echo  greets  his  timid  song; 
The  startled  sage  amid  the  embers  hurls 
The  gathered  wisdom  of  a  fruitful  life. 
0,  who  may  know  from  what  bright  pinnacles 
The  mounting  soul  might  look  on  coming  time, 
9* 


102  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Had  all  the  marvelous  thoughts  of  genius — 
Blasted  to  nothingness  by  thy  cold  sneer — 
Burst  through  the  bud  and  blossomed  into  fruit? 
Benumbing  planet,  on  our  system's  skirt, 
Whirl  from  thy  sphere,  and  round  some  lonely  sun. 
Within  whose  light  no  souls  their  ordeal  pass, 
Circle  and  frown  amid  thy  frozen  belts; 
For  I  am  sick  of  thee,  and  stately  man 
Shrinks  to  a  pigmy  in  thy  fearful  stare  ! 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    EARTH.  103 


FIXALE. 
CHORUS   OF   STARS. 

HEIR  of  eternity,  mother  of  souls, 
Let  not  thy  knowledge  betray  thee  to  folly ! 
Knowledge  is  proud,  self-sufficient  and  lone, 
Trusting,  unguided,  its  steps  in  the  darkness. 
Thine  is  the  learning  that  mankind  may  win, 
Gleaned  in  the  pathway  between  joy  and  sorrow; 
Ours  is  the  wisdom  that  hallows  the  child, 
Fresh  from  the  touch  of  his  awful  Creator, 
Dropped,  like  a  star,  on  thy  shadowy  realm, 
Falling  in  splendor,  but  falling  to  darken. 
Ours  is  the  simple  religion  of  faith, 
The  wisdom  of  trust  in  God  who  overrules  us — 
Thine  is  the  complex  misgivings  of  thought, 
Wrested  to  form  by  imperious  reason. 
We  are  forever  pursuing  the  light — 
Thou  art  forever  astray  in  the  darkness. 
Knowledge  is  restless,  imperfect  and  sad — 


104  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Faith  is  serene  and  completed  and  joyful. 
Chide  not  the  planets  that  rule  o'er  thy  ways ; 
They  are  God's  creatures;  nor  proud  in  thy  reason, 
Yaunt  that  thou  knowest  His  counsels  and  Him — 
Boaster,  though  sitting  in  midst  of  the  glory, 
Thou  couldst  not  fathom  the  least  of  His  thoughts. 
Bow  in  humility,  bow  thy  proud  forehead, 
Circle  thy  form  in  a  mantle  of  clouds, 
Hide  from  the  glittering  cohorts  of  evening, 
Wheeling  in  purity,  singing  in  chorus ; 
Howl  in  the  depths  of  thy  lone,  barren  mountains, 
Restlessly  moan  on  the  deserts  of  ocean, 
Wail  o'er  thy  fall  in  the  desolate  forests, 
Lost  star  of  paradise,  straying  alone ! 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  GOBLET. 


EVOE  BACCHE  !  wine  hath  seized  my  soul; 

The  fury  of  the  jolly  god  is  on ! 
Reach  me  the  mighty  ancient  bowl : 
Fill  till  the  goblet  weeps, 
Fill  till  the  rushing  current  sweeps 

The  dull,  cold  present  to  oblivion ! 
Now  swing  amain  the  mystic  beaker  tall, 

And  still  to  Bacchus  breathe  the  potent  spell ; 
Rouse  the  red-visaged  god  from  slumbers  deep 

In  green  Arcadian  dell ! 
Swing  till  the  ruby  breakers  rise  and  fall, 
Swing  till  the  coursing  bubbles  leap 
Above  their  crystal  wall ! 


106  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

What  gleams  beneath  the  purple  flood, 

Far  down  upon  the  nether  rim, 
Glowing  amid  the  vine's  rich  blood 

As  through  a  sunset's  misty  film? 
'Tis  Attica,  mild  Attica,  that  sleeps 

Embayed  by  heaven  among  her  vine-grown  hills; 
Mantled  with  flowers  and  glossy  grass  she  lies, 

Smiling  in  all  her  rills; 
Palace  and  temple-crowned  she  keeps 
Her  stately  slumber  'neath  the  evening  skies; 
While  Venus,  brooding  in  a  feathery  cloud, 

As  in  her  nest  the  silver-breasted  dove, 
Peeps  now  and  then  above  her  dusky  shroud 

Upon  the  land  of  love. 

Hark !  the  wine-waves,  dashing,  splashing, 
Seem  bacchantian  cymbals  clashing 

To  the  rumbling  drum, 
And  the  shivering  flutes'  shrill  singing, 
And  the  jingling  tabors'  ringing; 
While  anon,  the  hurly  dying, 
Syrinx  softly  breathes  her  sighing 

From  the  warbling  reed. 


THE   VISION   OF   THE   GOBLET.  107 

Caught  in  the  Satyr's  wily  snare, 
What  throngs  across  the  valley  come ; 
As  whirling  in  the  eddying  stream 
Of  music  to  the  hills  they  speed, 
While  upturned  Attic  foreheads  gleam 

Amid  their  billowing  hair ! 
Reeling,  staggering,  on  they  fly, 
Wine  in  the  blood  and  dizzy  eye, 
Wine  in  every  sinew  burning, 
Onward  still  its  minions  spurning 
Over  hill,  through  lushy  meadow, 
Through  the  forest's  glooming  shadow, 
Hither,  thither,  without  caring 
Where  their  guideless  feet  are  bearing. 

Tossing  aloft,  with  nods  of  drunken  cheer, 
Mark  old  Silenus  on  his  ass  appear ; 

Plashed  is  his  hoary  beard  with  purple  wine, 
Daggled  his  silver  locks,  his  reeking  brows 
Crowned  with  the  ivy  and  the  twisted  vine. 
Mark  how  the  dotard  leers, 
As  through  the  maids  he  steers, 


108  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  tries  to  summon  love  within  his  filmy  eyne ! 
Tiiick  with  the  luscious  grape 
His  mumbled  words  escape, 
The  barren  echoes  of  his  youthful  vows. 

Lo!  full-eyed  Bacchus  from  triumphant  war, 

Rich  with  the  trophied  Orient's  boast, 
Goads  through  the  crowd  his  flaming  Indian  car 

Before  the  Satyr  host, 
That  roaring  straggle  in  their  master's  rear, 

Twirling  the  ivied  thyrsus  as  they  bound, 
And  dance  grotesque,  and  mingled  laugh  and  jeer, 

And  cloven  foot-falls  shake  the  springing  ground. 

Around  the  hairy  rout,  with  streaming  hands, 

Athena's  maidens  whirl  the  dripping  urn ; 
Their  floating  vestures,  loosed  from  jealous  bands, 

Half  hide,  half  show  what  charms  beneath  them  burn. 
There  mellow  Pan  upon  the  Attic  ear, 

Framed  with  a  dainty  sense  for  melody, 
Pours  music  from  his  pipe  of  knotted  reeds, 
Lifting  the  ravished  soul  to  that  high  sphere 

Where  joy  and  pain  contend  for  mastery. 


THE    VISION    OF   THE    GOBLET.  109 

Now  tittering  glee  the  grinning  Satyr  breeds, 

Now  flings  the  heart  in  tearful  depths  of  woe, 
Now  big-eyed  fear  the  shrinking  crowd  appals, 
Now  to  the  blithsome  dance  the  music  calls ; 

Then  with  full  power  and  long,  triumphant  flow 
Of  swelling  notes  that  shake  the  rooted  soul, 
And  rise  and  fall  with  ocean's  measured  roll, 
He  lifts  to  Bacchus  his  resounding  lay; 
Tabor  and  drum  confess  the  potent  sway, 

And  join  their  muffled  notes. 
With  nodding  heads  and  brandished  arms, 

And  flashing  eyes,  and  swelling  throats, 

That  heave  with  song's  advancing  tides, 
The  crowd  obeys  the  cunning  master's  charms. 

A  murmured  hum  athwart  the  listeners  glides, 
While  still  the  pipes  their  pealing  notes  prolong, 

Piercing  the  heavens  with  wild  exultant  shout, 
Till  maddened  by  fierce  harmony,  the  throng 

From  end  to  end  in  ecstasy  bursts  out, 
And  thus  to  Bacchus  pours  its  choral  song. 

Joy,  joy  with  Bacchus  and  his  Satyr  train 
In  triumph  throbs  our  merry  Grecian  earth ! 
10 


110  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Joy,  joy,  the  golden  time  has  come  again, 
A  god  shall  bless  the  vine's  illustrious  birth  ! 
Io,  io,  Bacche ! 

O  breezes,  speed  across  the  mellow  lands, 
And  bear  his  coming  to  the  joyous  vine; 

Make  all  the  vineyards  wave  their  leafy  hands 
Upon  the  hills,  to  greet  this  pomp  divine ! 
Io,  io,  Bacche! 

O  peaceful  triumph,  victory  without  tear, 
Or  human  cry,  or  drop  of  conquered  blood, 

Save  dew-beads  bright,  that  on  the  vine  appear, 
The  choral  shouts,  the  trampled  grape's  red  flood ! 
Io,  io,  Bacche ! 

Shout,  Hellas,  shout !  the  lord  of  joy  is  come, 
Bearing  the  mortal  Lethe  in  his  hands, 

To  make  the  wailing  lips  of  sorrow  dumb, 
To  bind  sad  memory's  eyes  with  rosy  bands. 
Io,  io,  Bacche ! 


THE    VISION    OF    THE    GOBLET.  Ill 

Shout,  Hellas,  shout !  he  bears  the  soul  of  love, 
Within  each  glowing  drop  Promethean  fire  ; 

The  coldest  maids  beneath  its  power  shall  move, 
And  bashful  youths  be  bold  with  hot  desire. 
Io,  io,  Bacche! 

Long  may  the  ivy  deck  thy  sculptured  brows, 
Long  may  the  goat  upon  thy  altars  bleed, 

Long  may  thy  temples  hear  our  tuneful  vows, 
Chiming  accordant  to  the  vocal  reed. 
Io,  io,  Bacche! 

Long  may  the  hills  and  nodding  forests  move, 

Responsive  echoing  thy  festal  drum, 
Grief-scattering  Bacchus,  twice-born  son  of  Jove — 

Our  hearts  are  singing,  let  our  lips  be  dumb. 
Io,  io,  Bacche! 


"I  HAVE  A  COTTAGE." 


I  HAVE  a  cottage  where  the  sunbeams  lurk, 

Peeping  around  its  gables  all  day  long, 

Brimming  the  butter-cups  until  they  drip 

With  molten  gold,  like  o'ercharged  crucibles. 

Here,  wondering  why  the  morning-glories  close 

Their  crumpled  edges  ere  the  dew  is  dry, 

Great  lilies  stand,  and  stretch  their  languid  buds 

In  the  full  blaze  of  noon,  until  its  heat 

Has  pierced  them  to  their  centres.     Here  the  rose 

Is  larger,  redder,  sweeter,  longer-lived, 

Less  thorny,  than  the  rose  of  other  lands. 

I  have  a  cottage  where  the  south  wind  comes, 
Cool  from  the  spicy  pines,  or  with  a  breath 


I   HAVE   A   COTTAGE,  113 

Of  the  mid  ocean  salt  upon  its  lips, 

And  a  low,  lulling,  dreamy  sound  of  waves, 

To  breathe  upon  me,  as  I  lie  along 

On  my  white  violets,  marveling  at  the  bees 

That  toil  but  to  be  plundered,  or  the  mart 

Of  striving  men,  whose  bells  I  sometimes  hear 

When  they  will  toss  their  brazen  throats  at  heaven, 

And  howl  to  vex  me.     But  the  town  is  far; 

And  all  its  noises,  ere  they  trouble  me, 

Must  take  a  convoy  of  the  scented  breeze, 

And  climb  the  hills,  and  cross  the  bloomy  dales, 

And  catch  a  whisper  in  the  swaying  grain, 

And  bear  unfaithful  echoes  from  the  wood, 

And  mix  with  birds,  and  streams,  and  fluttering  leaves, 

And  an  old  ballad  which  the  shepherd  hums, 

Straying  in  thought  behind  his  browsing  flock. 

I  have  a  cottage  where  the  wild  bee  comes 
To  hug  the  thyme,  and  woo  its  dainties  forth ; 
Where  humming-birds,  plashed  with  the  rainbow's  dies, 
Poise  on  their  whirring  wings  before  the  door, 
And  drain  my  honeysuckles  at  a  draught. 
Ah,  giddy  sensualist,  how  thy  blazing  throat 
10* 


114  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Flashes  and  throbs,  while  thou  dost  pillage  me 
Of  all  my  virgin  flowers !     And  then,  away — 
What  eye  may  follow  !     But  yon  constant  robin ; 
Spring,  summer,  winter,  still  the  same  clear  song 
At  morn  and  eve,  still  the  contented  hop, 
And  low  sly  whistle,  when  the  crumbs  are  thrown  : 
Yet  he  is  jealous  of  my  tawny  thrush, 
And  drives  him  off,  ere  a  faint  symphony 
Ushers  the  carol  warming  in  his  breast. 

I  have  a  cottage  where  the  winter  winds 
Wreck  their  rude  passions  on  the  neighboring  hills, 
And  crawl  down,  shattered  by  the  edged  rocks, 
To  hide  themselves  among  the  stalactites, 
That  roof  my  frosty  cave,  against  midsummer ; 
Or  in  the  bosom  of  the  stream  they  creep, 
Numbing  the  gurgling  current  till  it  lies 
Stark,  frozen,  lifeless,  silent  as  the  moon ; 
Or  wrestle  with  the  cataracts ;  or  glide, 
Hustling  close  down,  among  the  crisp  dead  grass, 
To  chase  the  awkward  rabbits  from  their  haunts; 
Or  beat  my  roof  with  its  own  sheltering  boughs ; — 


I    HAVE    A    COTTAGE.  115 

Yet  never  daunt  me  !     For  my  flaming  logs 

Pour  up  the  chimney  a  defiant  roar, 

While  Shakspeare  and  a  flask  of  southern  wine, 

Brown  with  the  tan  of  Spain,  or  red  Bordeaux, 

Charm  me  until  the  crocus  says  to  me, 

In  its  own  way,  "Come  forth;  I've  brought  the  spring!" 

I  have  a  cottage  where  a  brook  runs  by, 

Making  faint  music  from  the  rugged  stones 

O'er  which  it  slides;  and  at  the  height  of  Prime, 

When  snows  are  melting  on  the  misty  hills 

That  front  the  south,  this  brook  comes  stealing  up 

To  wash  my  door-stone.     Oft  it  bears  along, 

Sad  sight,  a  funeral  of  primroses — 

Washed  from  the  treacherous  bank  to  which  they  grew 

W7ith  too  fond  faith — all  trooping  one  by  one, 

With  nodding  heads  in  seemly  order  ranged, 

Down  its  dull  current  towards  the  endless  sea. 

0  brook,  bear  me,  with  such  a  holy  calm, 

To  the  vast  ocean  that  awaits  for  me, 

And  I  know  one  whose  mournful  melody 

Shall  make  your  name  immortal  as  my  love. 


116  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

I  have  a  cottage  in  the  cloven  hills ; 

Through  yonder  peaks  the  flow  of  sunlight  comes, 

Dragging  its  sluggish  tide  across  the  path 

Of  the  reluctant  stars  which  silently 

Are  buried  in  it :     Through  yon  western  gap 

Day  ebbs  away,  leaving  a  margin  round, 

Of  sky  and  cloud,  drowned  in  its  sinking  flood, 

Till  Venus  shimmers  through  the  rising  blue, 

And  lights  her  sisters  up.     Here  lie  the  moonbeams, 

Hour  after  hour,  becalmed  in  the  still  trees, 

Or  on  the  weltering  leaves  of  the  young  grass 

Rest  half  asleep,  rocked  by  some  errant  wind. 

Here  are  more  little  stars,  on  winter  nights, 

Than  sages  reckon  in  their  heavenly  charts  j 

For  the  brain  wanders,  and  the  dizzy  eye 

Aches  at  their  sum,  and  dulls,  and  winks  with  them. 

The  Northern  lights  come  down  to  greet  me  here, 

Playing  fantastic  tricks,  above  my  head, 

With  their  long  tongues  of  fire  that  dart  and  catch, 

From  point  to  point,  across  the  firmament, 

As  if  the  face  of  heaven  were  passing  off 

In  low  combustion;  or  the  kindling  night 


I    HAVE   A    COTTAGE.  117 

Were  slowly  flaming  to  a  fatal  dawn, 
Wide-spread  and  sunless  as  the  day  of  doom. 

I  have  a  cottage  cowering  in  the  trees, 

And  seeming  to  shrink  lower  day  by  day. 

Sometimes  I  fancy  that  the  growing  boughs 

Have  dwarfed  my  dwelling;  but  the  solemn  oaks, 

That  hang  above  my  roof  so  lovingly, 

They  too  have  shrunk.     I  know  not  how  it  is : 

For  when  my  mother  led  me  by  the  hand 

Around  our  pale,  it  seemed  a  weary  walk ; 

And  then,  as  now,  the  sharp  roof  nestled  there, 

Among  the  trees,  and  they  propped  heaven.     Alas ! 

Who  leads  me  now  around  the  bushy  pale? 

Who  shows  the  birds'  nests  in  the  twilight  leaves? 
Who  catches  me  within  her  fair  round  arms, 
When  autumn  shakes  the  acorns  on  our  roof 
To  startle  me  ?     I  know  not  how  it  is : 
The  house  has  shrunk,  perhaps,  as  our  poor  hearts, 
When  they  both  broke  at  parting,  and  mine  closed 
Upon  a  memory,  shutting  out  the  world 
Like  a  sad  anchorite. — Ah  !  that  gusty  morn ! 
But  here  she  lived,  here  died,  and  so  will  I. 


118  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

I  have  a  cottage — murmur  if  ye  will, 
Ye  men  whose  lips  are  prison-doors  to  thoughts 
Born,  with  mysterious  struggles,  in  the  heart ; 
And,  maidens,  let  your  store  of  hoarded  smiles 
Break  from  their  dimples,  like  the  spreading  rings 
That  skim  a  lake,  when  some  stray  blossom  falls 
Warm  in  its  bosom.     Ah,  you  cannot  tell 
Why  violets  choose  not  a  neighboring  bank, 
Why  cowslips  blow  upon  the  self-same  bed, 
Why  year  by  year  the  swallow  seeks  one  nest, 
Why  the  brown  wren  rebuilds  her  hairy  home. 
0,  sightless  cavilers,  you  do  not  know 
How  deep  roots  strike,  or  with  what  tender  care 
The  soft  down  lining  warms  the  nest  within. 
Think  as  you  will,  murmur  and  smile  apace — 
I  have  a  cottage  where  my  days  shall  close, 
Calm  as  the  setting  of  a  feeble  star. 


THE  RIVER  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 


FROM  the  sunset  flows  the  river, 
Melting  all  its  waves  in  one ; 

Not  a  ripple,  not  a  quiver, 

On  the  flaming  water,  ever 

Poured  from  the  descending  sun : 

Seeming  like  a  pathway  lately 

Radiant  with  an  angel's  tread ; 
And  yon  vessel,  moving  stately, 
Is  the  heavenly  one  sedately 

Walking  with  his  wings  outspread. 


120  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

What  a  quiet!     Through  the  branches, 

Silently  the  orioles  skip; 
Not  again  the  fish-hawk  launches, 
Silently  his  plumes  he  stanches, 

Silently  the  sedges  drip. 

Other  sights,  and  loud  commotion, 
Fill  this  tranquil  stream  by  day; 
With  a  solemn  swaying  motion, 
Wave-worn  ships  forsake  the  ocean, 
Bound  from  countries  leagues  away : 

Odorous  with  their  eastern  spices, 
Rich  with  gems  of  the  Brazils, 
Persian  silks  of  quaint  devices, 
Nameless  things  of  wondrous  prices, 
Luscious  wines  from  Spanish  hills  j 

Furs  from  the  sly  ermine  riven, 

Ingots  of  Peruvian  mould, 
Where  the  deadly  tropic  levin 
Crashes  from  the  blazing  heaven, 
Piercing  earth  with  veins  of  gold. 


THE  RIVER  AND  THE  MAIDEN.      121 

But  amid  the  sacred  quiet 

Of  this  gentle  evening-time, 
Toil  and  sin  have  ceased  their  riot ; 
One  might  judge  the  awful  fiat 

Were  removed  from  Adam's  crime. 

Holiest  eve,  thy  light  discloses 

Holiest  things;  for  through  the  shades 

Mark  I  where  my  love  reposes, 

Sitting  there  amid  the  roses 
Like  a  queen  amid  her  maids. 

Through  the  foliage,  green  and  golden, 
Round  her  head  the  sunbeams  dart, 

Haloing  her  like  some  saint  olden ; 

And  a  chapel  calm  is  holden 
In  the  stillness  of  her  heart. 

Distant,  yet  I  guess  her  singing; 

Haply  some  poor  lay  of  mine, 
Loud  with  drum  and  trumpet  ringing, 
Or  of  shameless  goblets  swinging 

In  the  tumult  of  the  wine. 
11 


122  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Wicked  ballad !  all  unsuited 

To  the  genial  season's  calm, 
Harsh,  discordant,  sin-polluted; — 
Yet  by  her  sweet  voice  transmuted 
Almost  to  a  vesper  psalm. 

See,  her  steps  are  hither  bending, 

This,  our  trysting-place,  she  seeks : 
All  her  wealth  is  with  her  wending, 
In  the  lights  and  shadows  blending 
Round  the  dimples  of  her  cheeks ; 

In  the  eyes  that  melt  at  sorrow, 
In  the  wisdom  without  wiles, 
In  the  faith  that  will  not  borrow 
From  to-day  fear  of  to-morrow, 
In  a  countless  store  of  smiles; 

In  the  heart  that  cannot  flutter 

For  a  breath  of  flattery, 
In  the  mouth  that  cannot  utter 
Halting  lie  or  envious  mutter — 
In  her  simple  love  for  me. 


THE    RIVER   AND    THE    MAIDEN.  123 

Crowd  you  river  with  your  barges — 

All  the  navies  of  the  main — 
Till  the  loaded  tide  enlarges, 
Till  it  bursts  its  wonted  marges, 

Deluging  the  pleasant  plain ! 

Freight  them  with  the  precious  plunder 

Of  the  lands  beyond  the  sea — 
Pearls  that  make  the  diver  wonder, 
All  the  virgin  silver  under 

The  great  hills  of  Potosi ; 

All  the  real  and  fabled  riches 

Of  the  haughty  Persian  Khan, 
All  the  gold  that  so  bewitches, 
All  the  gorgeous  broidered  stitches 

Of  the  girls  of  Hindoostan ; 

All  the  furs,  the  wines,  the  treasures, 

Were  they  at  my  bidding  laid, 
Ten  times  doubled  in  their  measures, 
Ten  times  doubled  in  their  pleasures, 

I  would  rather  have  the  maid ! 


A  BALLAD  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 


"  The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around." — COLERIDGE. 

0,  WHITHER  sail  you,  Sir  John  Franklin  ? 

Cried  a  whaler  in  Baffin's  Bay. 
To  know  if  between  the  land  and  the  pole 

I  may  find  a  broad  sea-way. 

I  charge  you  back,  Sir  John  Franklin, 
As  you  would  live  and  thrive; 

For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  pole 
No  man  may  sail  alive. 


A   BALLAD    OF    SIR   JOHN   FRANKLIN.          125 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 

And  spoke  unto  his  men  : 
Half  England  is  wrong,  if  he  is  right; 

Bear  off  to  westward  then. 

0;  whither  sail  you,  brave  Englishman  ? 

Cried  the  little  Esquimaux. 
Between  your  land  and  the  polar  star 

My  goodly  vessels  go. 

Come  down,  if  you  would  journey  there, 

The  little  Indian  said; 
And  change  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing, 

Your  vessel  for  a  sled. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too  : — 

A  sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 
I  ween,  were  something  new  ! 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day, 

The  vessels  westward  sped  ; 
And  wherever  the  sail  of  Sir  John  was  blown, 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled. 
11* 


126  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Gave  way  with  many  a  hollow  groan, 

And  with  many  a  surly  roar, 
But  it  murmured  and  threatened  on  every  side, 

And  closed  where  he  sailed  before. 

Ho  !  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men, 

The  broad  and  open  sea  ? 
Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said, 
Think  of  the  little  Indian's  sled ! 

The  crew  laughed  out  in  glee. 

Sir  John,  Sir  John,  'tis  bitter  cold, 

The  scud  drives  on  the  breeze, 
The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  north, 

The  very  sunbeams  freeze. 

Bright  summer  goes,  dark  winter  comes — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year ; 
But  long  ere  summer's  sun  goes  down, 

On  yonder  sea  we'll  steer. 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose, 
And  floundered  down  the  gale ; 


A   BALLAD    OF    SIR    JOHN    FRANKLIN.          127 

The  ships  were  staid,  the  yards  were  manned, 
And  furled  the  useless  sail. 

The  summer's  gone,  the  winter's  come, 

We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea : 
Why  sail  we  not,  Sir  John  Franklin? 

A  silent  man  was  he. 

The  summer  goes,  the  winter  comes — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year  : 
I  ween,  we  cannot  rule  the  ways, 

Sir  John,  wherein  we'd  steer. 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on, 

And  closed  beneath  the  lee, 
Till  the  thickening  waters  dashed  no  more ; 
'Twas  ice  around,  behind,  before — 

My  God  !  there  is  no  sea  ! 

What  think  you  of  the  whaler  now  ? 

What  of  the  Esquimaux  ? 
A  sled  were  better  than  a  ship, 

To  cruise  through  ice  and  snow. 


128  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 

The  northern  light  came  out, 
And  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ships, 

And  shook  its  spears  about. 

The  snow  came  down,  storm  breeding  storm, 

And  on  the  decks  was  laid ; 
Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  at  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade. 

Sir  John,  the  night  is  black  and  long, 

The  hissing  wind  is  bleak, 
The  hard,  green  ice  is  strong  as  death : — 

I  prithee,  Captain,  speak  ! 

The  night  is  neither  bright  nor  short, 

The  singing  breeze  is  cold, 
The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope — 

The  heart  of  man  is  bold  ! 

What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall, 
High  over  the  main  flag-staff? 


A   BALLAD    OF    SIR   JOHN   FRANKLIN.          129 

Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear 
Look  down,  with  a  patient,  settled  stare, 
Look  down  on  us  and  laugh. 

The  summer  went,  the  winter  came — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year; 
But  summer  will  melt  the  ice  again, 
And  open  a  path  to  the  sunny  main, 

Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer. 

The  winter  went,  the  summer  went, 

The  winter  came  around; 
But  the  hard,  green  ice  was  strong  as  death, 
And  the  voice  of  hope  sank  to  a  breath, 

Yet  caught  at  every  sound. 

Hark  !  heard  you  not  the  noise  of  guns  ? — 

And  there,  and  there,  again  ? 
'Tis  some  uneasy  iceberg's  roar, 

As  he  turns  in  the  frozen  main. 

Hurra  !  hurra  !  the  Esquimaux 
Across  the  ice-fields  steal : 


130  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

God  give  them  grace  for  their  charity ! 
Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal. 

Sir  John;  where  are  the  English  fields, 
And  where  are  the  English  trees, 

And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 
That  open  in  the  breeze  ? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors  ! 

You  shall  see  the  fields  again, 
And  smell  the  scent  of  the  opening  flowers, 

The  grass,  and  the  waving  grain. 

Oh  !  when  shall  I  see  my  orphan  child  ? 

My  Mary  waits  for  me. 
Oh  !  when  shall  I  see  my  old  mother, 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee  ? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors  ! 

Think  not  such  thoughts  again. 
But  a  tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek ; 

He  thought  of  Lady  Jane. 


A    BALLAD    OF    SIR    JOHN    FRANKLIN.          131 

Ah !  bitter,  bitter  grows  the  cold, 

The  ice  grows  more  and  more; 
More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 

More  patient  than  before. 

Oh !  think  you,  good  Sir  John  Franklin, 

We'll  ever  see  the  land  ? 
'Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve, 

Without  a  helping  hand. 

'Twas  cruel,  Sir  John,  to  send  us  here, 

So  far  from  help  or  home, 
To  starve  and  freeze  on  this  lonely  sea : 
I  ween,  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 

Would  rather  send  than  come. 

Oh  !  whether  we  starve  to  death  alone, 

Or  sail  to  our  own  country, 
We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done — 
The  truth  is  founded,  the  secret  won — 

We  passed  the  Northern  Sea ! 


SONGS  AND  SONNETS 


12 


SONGS  AND  SONNETS. 


LOVE-LORN  Lucy 

On  a  bank  sat  sighing, 
Welladay!  ah!  welladay! 
My  fickle  love  has  flown  away, 

And  left  me  here  a-dying. 

False,  false  pledges — 

Why  did  I  receive  them  ? 
Vows  are  but  words,  and  words  but  air, 
And  air  can  blow  both  foul  and  fair : 

Oh  !  why  did  I  believe  them? 


136  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 

"  Ah !  light-hearted. 
Would  thy  fraud  might  slay  me ! 

Would  thy  scorn  might  end  my  pain  ! 

Or  would  that  thou  might'st  come  again; 
And  again  betray  me  ! 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  137 


THERE  was  a  gay  maiden  lived  down  by  the  mill- 
Ferry  me  over  the  ferry— 
Her  hair  was  as  bright  as  the  waves  of  a  rill, 
When  the  sun  on  the  brink  of  his  setting  stands  still, 
Her  lips  were  as  full  as  a  cherry. 

A  stranger  came  galloping  over  the  hill- 
Ferry  me  over  the  ferry — 
He  gave  her  broad  silver  and  gold  for  his  will  : 
She  glanced  at  the  stranger,  she  glanced  o'er  the  sill; 
The  maiden  was  gentle  and  merry. 

Oh  !  what  would  you  give  for  your  virtue  again  ? — 

Ferry  me  over  the  ferry- — 
Oh  !  silver  and  gold  on  your  lordship  I'd  rain, 
I'd  double  your  pleasure,  I'd  double  my  pain, 

This  moment  forever  to  bury. 
12* 


138  SONGS   AND   SONNETS. 


I  SIT  beneath  the  sunbeams'  glow, 
Their  golden  currents  round  me  flow, 
Their  mellow  kisses  warm  my  brow, 

But  all  the  world  is  dreary. 
The  vernal  meadow  round  me  blooms, 
And  flings  to  me  its  faint  perfumes ; 
Its  breath  is  like  an  opening  tomb's — 

I'm  sick  of  life,  I'm  weary ! 

The  mountain  brook  skips  down  to  me, 
Tossing  its  silver  tresses  free, 
Humming  like  one  in  revery; 
But  ah !  the  sound  is  dreary. 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  189 

The  trilling  blue-birds  o'er  me  sail, 
There's  music  in  the  faint- voiced  gale; 
All  sound  to  me  a  mourner's  wail — 
I'm  sick  of  life,  I'm  weary. 

The  night  leads  forth  her  starry  train, 
The  glittering  moonbeams  fall  like  rain, 
There's  not  a  shadow  on  the  plain ; 

Yet  all  the  scene  is  dreary. 
The  sunshine  is  a  mockery, 
The  solemn  moon  stares  moodily ; 
Alike  is  day  or  night  to  me — 

I'm  sick  of  life,  I'm  weary. 

I  know  to  some  the  world  is  fair, 
For  them  there's  music  in  the  air, 
And  shapes  of  beauty  everywhere; 

But  all  to  me  is  dreary. 
I  know  in  me  the  sorrows  lie 
That  blunt  my  ear  and  dim  my  eye ; 
I  cannot  weep,  I  fain  would  die — 

I'm  sick  of  life,  I'm  weary. 


STREET   LYRICS. 

i. 

THE   GROCER'S  DAUGHTER 


STOP,  stop !  and  look  through  the  dusty  pane.— 
She's  gone ! — Nay,  hist !  again  I  have  caught  her 

There  is  the  source  of  my  sighs  of  pain, 
There  is  my  idol,  the  Grocer's  daughter ! 

"  A  child !  no  woman  !"     A  bud,  no  flower : 

But  think,  when  a  year  or  more  has  brought  her 

Its  ripening  roundness,  how  proud  a  dower 

Of  charms  will  bloom  in  the  Grocer's  daughter ! 


STREET    LYRICS.  141 

I  have  a  love  for  the  flower  that  blows, 

One  for  the  bud  that  needs  sun  and  water ; 

The  first  because  it  is  now  a  rose, 

The  other  will  be — like  the  Grocer's  daughter. 

She  stood  in  the  door,  as  I  passed  to-day, 

And  mine  and  a  thousand  glances  sought  her; 

Like  a  star  from  heaven  with  equal  ray, 
On  all  alike  shone  the  Grocer's  daughter. 

Mark  how  the  sweetest  on  earth  can  smile, 

As  yon  patient  drudge,  yon  coarse-browed  porter, 

Eases  his  burdened  back,  the  while 

Keeping  his  eyes  on  the  Grocer's  daughter. 

Now,  look  ye  !  I  who  have  much  to  lose — 

Rank,  wealth  and  friends — like  the  load  he  brought  her, 

Would  toss  them  under  her  little  shoes, 

To  win  that  smile  from  the  Grocer's  daughter. 


142  SONGS   AND    SONNETS. 


II. 

A   MYSTERY. 


JUST  as  the  twilight  shades  turn  darker, 

There  is  a  maiden  passes  me ; 
Many  and  many  a  time  I  mark  her, 

Wondering  who  that  maid  can  be. 

Sometimes  she  bears  her  music,  fastened 
Scroll-like  around  with  silken  twine; 

And  once — although  she  blushed  and  hastened, 
I  knew  it — she  bore  a  book  of  mine. 

In  cold  or  heat,  I  never  passed  her, 
Beneath  serene  or  threatening  skies, 

That  she  upon  me  did  not  cast  her 
Strong,  full  and  steady  hazel  eyes. 


STREET    LYRICS.  143 

Eyes  of  such  wondrous  inner  meaning, 

So  filled  with  light,  so  deep,  so  true, 
As  if  her  thoughts  disdained  all  screening, 

And  clustered  in  them,  looking  through. 

Thus,  day  by  day,  we  meet;  no  greeting, 
No  sign  she  makes,  no  word  she  says ; 

Unless  our  eyes  salute  at  meeting, 
And  she  says  somewhat  by  her  gaze. 

Says  what  ?     At  first,  her  looks  were  often 

As  cheering  as  the  sun  above ; 
Next,  they  began  to  dim  and  soften, 

Like  glances  from  a  brooding  dove ; 

Then  wonder,  then  reproach,  concealing 

A  coming  anger,  I  could  see : 
I  passed,  but  felt  her  eyes  were  stealing 

Around,  and  following  after  me. 

Before  me  once,  with  firm  possession, 
She  almost  paused,  and  hung  upon 


144  SONGS   AND   SONNETS. 

The  very  verge  of  some  confession ; 
But  maiden  coyness  led  her  on. 

Sometimes  I  think  the  maid  indulges 

An  idle  fancy  by  the  way. 
Sometimes  I  think  her  look  divulges 

A  deeper  sign — a  mind  astray. 

This  eve  she  met  me,  wild  with  laughter, 
More  sad  than  weeping  would  have  been- 

A  pang  before,  a  sorrow  after  j 

Tell  me,  what  can  the  maiden  mean  ? 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  145 


THE  AWAKING  OF  THE  POETICAL 
FACULTY. 


ALL  day  I  heard  a  humming  in  my  ears, 
A  buzz  of  many  voices,  and  a  throng 
Of  swarming  numbers,  passing  with  a  song 
Measured  and  stately  as  the  rolling  spheres'. 

I  saw  the  sudden  light  of  lifted  spears, 

Slanted  at  once  against  some  monster  wrong; 
And  then  a  fluttering  scarf  which  might  belong 
To  some  sweet  maiden  in  her  morn  of  years. 

I  felt  the  chilling  damp  of  sunless  glades, 

Horrid  with  gloom ;  anon,  the  breath  of  May 
Was  blown  around  me,  and  the  lulling  play 

Of  dripping  fountains.     Yet  the  lights  and  shades, 
The  waving  scarfs,  the  battle's  grand  parades, 
Seemed  but  vague  shadows  of  that  wondrous  lay. 
13 


146  SONGS   AND   SONNETS. 


TO  ANDREW  JACKSON. 


OLD  lion  of  the  Hermitage,  again 

The  times  invoke  thee,  but  thou  art  not  here; 
Cannot  our  peril  call  thee  from  thy  bier? 
France  vapors,  and  the  puny  arm  of  Spain 

Is  up  to  strike  us;  England  gives  them  cheer, 
False  to  the  child  that  in  her  hour  of  fear 
Must  be  her  bulwark  and  her  succor,  fain 
To  prop  the  strength  which  even  now  doth  wane. 

Not  these  alone;  intestine  broils  delight 
The  gaping  monarchs,  and  our  liberal  shore 
Is  rife  with  traitors.     Now,  while  both  unite — 

Europe  and  treason — I  would  see  once  more 
Thy  dreadful  courage  lash  itself  to  might, 
Behold  thee  shake  thy  mane,  and  hear  thy  roar! 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  147 


TO  ENGLAND. 


LEAR  and  Cordelia !  'twas  an  ancient  tale 

Before  thy  Shakspeare  gave  it  deathless  fame  : 
The  times  have  changed,  the  moral  is  the  same. 
So  like  an  outcast,  dowerless  and  pale. 

Thy  daughter  went ;  and  in  a  foreign  gale 

Spread  her  young  banner,  till  its  sway  became 
A  wonder  to  the  nations.     Days  of  shame 
Are  close  upon  thee :  prophets  raise  their  wail. 

"When  the  rude  Cossack  with  an  outstretched  hand 
Points  his  long  spear  across  the  narrow  sea — 
aLo  !  there  is  England!"  when  thy  destiny 

Storms  on  thy  straw-crowned  head,  and  thou  dost  stand 
"Weak,  helpless,  mad,  a  by-word  in  the  land, — 
God  grant  thy  daughter  a  Cordelia  be  ! 


148  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


WHAT,  cringe  to  Europe !     Band  it  all  in  one, 
Stilt  its  decrepit  strength,  renew  its  age, 
Wipe  out  its  debts,  contract  a  loan  to  wage 
Its  venal  battles — and  by  yon  bright  sun, 

Our  God  is  false,  and  liberty  undone, 

If  slaves  have  power  to  win  your  heritage ! 
Look  on  your  country,  God's  appointed  stage, 
Where  man's  vast  mind  its  boundless  course  shall  run. 

For  that  it  was  your  stormy  coast  He  spread — 
A  fear  in  winter;  girded  you  about 
With  granite  hills,  and  made  you  strong  and  dread. 

Let  him  who  fears  before  the  foemen  shout, 
Or  gives  an  inch  before  a  vein  has  bled, 
Turn  on  himself;  and  let  the  traitor  out ! 


SONGS   AND   SONNETS.  149 


WHAT  though  the  cities  blaze,  the  ports  be  sealed, 
The  fields  untilled,  the  hands  of  labor  still, 
Ay,  every  arm  of  commerce  and  of  skill 
Palsied  and  broken;  shall  we  therefore  yield — 

Break  up  the  sword,  put  by  the  dintless  shield? 
Have  we  no  home  upon  the  wooded  hill, 
That  mocks  a  siege  ?     No  patriot  ranks  to  drill  ? 
No  nobler  labor  in  the  battle-field  ? 

Or  grant  us  beaten.     While  we  gather  might, 
Is  there  no  comfort  in  the  solemn  wood  ? 
No  cataracts  whose  angry  roar  shall  smite 

Our  hearts  with  courage  ?     No  eternal  brood 
Of  thoughts  begotten  by  the  eagle's  flight  ? 
No  God  to  strengthen  us  in  solitude? 
13* 


150  SONGS   AND    SONNETS. 


NOT  when  the  buxom  form  which  nature  wears 
Is  pregnant  with  the  lusty  warmth  of  Spring; 
Nor  when  hot  Summer,  sunk  with  what  she  bears, 
Lies  panting  in  her  flowery  offering ; 

Nor  yet  when  dusty  Autumn  sadly  fares 

In  tattered  garb,  through  which  the  shrewd  winds  sing, 
To  bear  her  treasures  to  the  griping  snares 
Hard  Winter  set  for  the  poor  bankrupt  thing  j 

Not  even  when  Winter,  heir  of  all  the  year, 
Deals,  like  a  miser,  round  his  niggard  board 
The  brimming  plenty  of  his  luscious  hoard ; 

No,  not  in  nature,  change  she  howsoe'er, 
Can  I  find  perfect  type  or  worthy  peer 
Of  the  fair  maid  in  whom  my  heart  is  stored. 


SONGS   AND    SONNETS.  151 


SPRING,  in  the  gentle  look  with  which  she  turns 
Her  sunny  glance  on  all,  indeed  I  find ; 
And  ardent  Summer  in  the  roses  burns 
Of  her  twin  cheeks,  and  from  her  gracious  mind — 

Like  rare  exotics  nursed  in  precious  urns, 

With  cultured  taste  and  native  grace  combined — 
Her  teeming  thoughts  arise :  Too  well  she  learns 
This  summer  sweetness  !  Generous  Autumn,  bind 

A  deathless  chaplet  round  her  queenly  brow ; 
For  like  thy  own,  in  boundless  charity, 
Her  heart  is  filled  with  motives  frank  and  free, 

Her  hand  with  alms.     Alas !  I  see  it  now ; 
From  thee,  cold  Winter,  all  her  fancies  flow, 
Who,  rich  in  all,  will  nothing  give  to  me. 


152  SONGS   AND   SONNETS. 


EITHER  the  sum  of  this  sweet  mutiny 

Amongst  thy  features  argues  me  some  harm; 
Or  else  they  practise  wicked  treachery 
Against  themselves,  thy  heart,  and  hapless  me. 

For  as  I  start  aside  with  blank  alarm, 
Dreading  the  glitter  which  begins  to  arm 
Thy  clouded  brows,  lo !  from  thy  lips  I  see 
A  smile  come  stealing,  like  a  loaded  bee, 

Heavy  with  sweets  and  perfumes,  all  a-blaze 
With  soft  reflections  from  the  flowery  wall 
Whereon  it  pauses.  Yet  I  will  not  raise 

One  question  more,  let  smile  or  frown  befall, 
Taxing  thy  love  where  I  should  only  praise ; 
And  asking  changes,  that  might  change  thee  all. 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  153 


I'LL  call  thy  frown  a  headsman,  passing  grim, 

Walking  before  some  wretch  foredoomed  to  death, 
Who  counts  the  pantings  of  his  own  hard  breath; 
Wondering  how  heart  can  beat,  or  steadfast  limb 

Bear  its  sad  burden  to  life's  awful  brim. 
I'll  call  thy  smile  a  priest  who  slowly  saith 
Soft  words  of  comfort,  as  the  sinner  straith 
Away  in  thought ;  or  sings  a  holy  hymn, 

Full  of  rich  promise,  as  he  walks  behind 
The  fatal  axe  with  face  of  goodly  cheer, 
And  kind  inclinings  of  his  saintly  ear. 

So,  love,  thou  seest  in  smiles,  or  looks  unkind, 
Some  taste  of  sweet  philosophy  I  find, 
That  seasons  all  things  in  our  little  sphere. 


154  SONGS   AND    SONNETS. 


NAY,  not  to  thee,  to  nature  I  will  tie 

The  gathered  blame  of  every  pettish  mood; 

And  when  thou  frown'st,  I'll  frown  upon  the  wood, 

Saying,  "  How  wide  its  gloomy  shadows  lie  !" 

Or,  gazing  straight  into  the  day's  bright  eye, 
Predict  ere  night  a  fatal  second  flood ; 
Or  vow  the  poet's  sullen  solitude 
Has  changed  my  vision  to  a  darksome  dye. 

But  when  thou  smil'st,  I  will  not  look  above, 
To  wood  or  sky;  my  hand  I  will  not  lay 
Upon  the  temple  of  my  sacred  love, 

To  blame  its  living  fires  with  base  decay; 
But  whisper  to  thee,  as  I  nearer  move, 
"  Love,  thou  dost  add  another  light  to  day." 


SONGS    AND    SONNETS.  155 


How  canst  thou  call  my  modest  love  impure, 

Being  thyself  the  holy  source  of  all  ? 

Can  ugly  darkness  from  the  fair  sun  fall  ? 

Or  nature's  compact  be  so  insecure, 
That  saucy  weeds  may  sprout  up  and  endure 

Where  gentle  flowers  were  sown  ?     The  brooks  that 
crawl, 

With  lazy  whispers,  through  the  lilies  tall, 

Or  rattle  o'er  the  pebbles,  will  allure 
With  no  feigned  sweetness,  if  their  fount  be  sweet. 

So  thou,  the  sun  whence  all  my  light  doth  flow — 

Thou,  sovereign  law  by  which  my  fancies  grow — 
Thou,  fount  of  every  feeling,  slow  or  fleet — 

Against  thyself  would'st  aim  a  teacherous  blow, 

Slaying  thy  honor  with  thy  own  conceit. 


156  SONGS    AND    SONNETS. 


WHY  shall  I  chide  the  hand  of  wilful  Time 

When  he  assaults  thy  wondrous  store  of  charms? 
Why  charge  the  gray-beard  with  a  wanton  crime? 
Or  strive  to  daunt  him  with  my  shrill  alarms  ? 

Or  seek  to  lull  him  with  a  silly  rhyme : 
So  he,  forgetful,  pause  upon  his  arms, 
And  leave  thy  beauties  in  their  noble  prime, 
The  sole  survivors  of  his  grievous  harms  ? 

Alas !  my  love,  though  I'll  indeed  bemoan 
The  fatal  ruin  of  thy  majesty; 
Yet  I'll  remember  that  to  Time  alone 

I  owed  thy  birth,  thy  charms'  maturity, 

Thy  crowning  love,  with  which  he  vested  me, 
Nor  can  reclaim  though  all  the  rest  be  flown. 

THE    END. 


